


The Usual Suspects

by notjustmom, scrub456



Series: John and Sherlock's Excellent Adventure [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Douglas Adams quotations, F/M, M/M, Mary is just plain bad, Some Fluff, Some angst, and what's in between, the boys still handsy but platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 34,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."</p>
<p>-Douglas Adams</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boys....we got another one...

Holmes closed the door quietly as to not disturb the gently snoring man in their bed. He removed his robe and slid under the covers next to him, wondering how it was they had wasted so much time apart. Perhaps it was because they were both solitary men, set in their ways, that it took death, rebirth an-

"Mycroft!" John nearly jumped when he saw the usually imperturbable official slump into the chair across from him. Quickly he saved the document and slammed his laptop shut.

"What the hell happened?" John looked him over. He was dressed impeccably as always, but something in his eyes seemed shattered. Utterly - "Sherlock!"

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, nearly dropping them when he observed his brother's body language. "Myc?"

"I- I know you aren't taking cases right now, but I need your help. Someone is, for lack of a better term, 'gunning for me.' Six day- no, a week, I think, at least I think it's been a week -"

Sherlock waited patiently for his clearly distraught brother to gather his thoughts enough to continue.

"Anthea. Anthea is in hospital. She. Dammit. How the hell do you - Fuck. She sensed something was wrong as we were about to enter the building that morning and she tackled me, taking a bullet meant for me."

Sherlock took a breath and observed his brother. Deep, dark circles under his eyes, a shaky hand had attempted to shave through a thick beard; his usual sartorial splendour, though unrumpled was hanging loosely about his shoulders, as if he hadn't eaten all week, but most of all, it was the lack of the ubiquitous umbrella that sent a shiver through the detective.

"Myc - "

"She was shot in the back, Sherlock, they don't believe there will be any permanent damage, but she...I - she has been at my side for twenty years, Sherlock, I don't know how - they say she could wake up at any time, but she hasn't. How do you deal with these - feelings all the time? I can't, I can barely breathe, let alone think about what's next on my fucking agenda."

"Have you been home since it happened?" John asked him softly.

"No. Her assistant has been bringing me fresh clothing..." 

"Why didn't you let us know, Myc?" Sherlock whispered. "We could have-"

"What? What could you have done, Sherlock? It had only been a week since the Baskerville fiasco, I didn't want to disturb you, and I'm used to dealing with everything on my own, but I'm realising that I haven't ever been on my own as an adult. She and I have been together since Uni, we were recruited together, they recognised her talents early on, and she has been my left and right hands ever since. But, I find it is more than simply the loss of her unique abilities, I...believe, quite shockingly, have come to believe that I love her."

 

"Al, love? Alastair? Andy!"

"Whaaa -" Andy opened his eyes to find that he had been crying and Sally was gently shaking him awake.

"How long has this been going on, Al?" Donovan asked quietly.

"Since the night you were shot." He admitted sheepishly, trying to catch his breath. "It's the same dream, every night, over and over. John shuts the door as he did, but it's a vial of the airborne variation and they can't get us out in time to save you, or us." He rolled over away from her so she wouldn't see his face.

"Fuck. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"You just got home. I've been trying to stay awake so I wouldn't see it, but I eventually fall asleep, every fucking night. I'm used to being alone. I don't know how to, uhm, do 'this' yet, I don't want you to have to worry. You are still recovering, you need peace and quiet, which frankly I am not at the moment. I can go sleep in the other room." He began to get up and she cleared her throat. He sighed and rolled back over to face her, afraid to see the expression in her eyes.

Donovan kissed him then shook her head. "Stop. Breathe for me. You are not going anywhere, sweetie, we're both newbies at this, but you have to talk to me, love. I am here. Do you understand that? I am not leaving you. I am not leaving you. Do you hear me?"

Andy nodded and gently rearranged them so he was curled around her, her back to his chest, and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist lightly so he could feel her strong pulse under his fingers. "I have known you, what? less than three weeks? And already, I can't imagine what life would be without you."

For the first time in her life, Sally Donovan had no retort or withering comeback ready. He had rendered her completely and utterly speechless. She brought their entwined fingers to her lips and kissed his fingers, then pretended to snore. Soon, she could feel his breathing change and she knew he was asleep once again. She carefully reached for her phone and sent a text.

 

Any word on when Andy starts? - SD

Soon, Donovan. Soon. - GL

Good, he needs a distraction. - SD

I know. Any day, the paperwork is on my desk, Sally. - GL

Thank you. - SD

 

Mrs. Hudson walked quietly back down the steps, becoming angrier by the minute. First she was angry at Mycroft for not calling her. Then she was angry at Anthea for getting hurt, she knew how to take care of herself better than this; then of course the shooter, and whoever was behind it...she slammed her door shut and tried to pick up her tea cup, it crumpled in her fingers as she realised who it had to be...but he's...he was supposed to be...dead. She cursed as a sliver of porcelain pierced her thumb.

"Damn it!" She looked at the dishes that were drying neatly on the rack and sighed heavily. After cleaning her thumb and applying a plaster, she slipped her hands back into the rubber gloves and began to rewash the dishes.


	2. It's Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"All you really need to know for the moment is that the universe is a lot more complicated than you might think, even if you start from a position of thinking it's pretty damn complicated in the first place."_ -Douglas Adams

John recognized a complete system shut down when he saw one. He pushed himself up from his chair and pried the mugs from Sherlock's hands. He checked the contents of each, shrugged and handed the one Sherlock had prepared for himself to Mycroft. "Sip this," John commanded, and to his surprise, Mycroft obeyed. A bit not good, that. He took a drink of his own tepid tea and winced as he set the mug aside. He nudged Sherlock, who appeared shell-shocked despite the fact that he had never stopped cataloging Mycroft's appearance with quick, assessing eyes, forward to sit rigidly in his armchair.

"Seems the balance has been disrupted," John mumbled. He frowned as he took the empty mug from Mycroft.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So, all that about sentiment and chemical defects..."

"It would appear that I was mistaken." He looked down to where he was clenching and releasing the fabric of his trousers repeatedly with his fingers.

"You love her." Sherlock repeated, and there was none of the usual snark or bite he so often directed at his brother.

Mycroft's hands suddenly stilled, he sniffed and attempted to smooth the wrinkles he'd created. He took a deep breath in order to regain his composure. When he looked back up at Sherlock, there was a determination in his eyes that had not been there only moments before. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and simply inclined his head in a single nod. Sherlock seemed to accept Mycroft's countenance as confirmation enough. He settled back and drummed the arm of the chair with his fingers.

"Well, now we know, both of you have hearts. That's settled..." John stood next to Sherlock, his arms crossed over his chest. "Mycroft, is there anything you can tell us at all? Do you have any ideas who might be out to get you?"

"There is always someone 'out to get' me, Dr. Watson. It's the nature of my chosen career." He cast a long-suffering look in John's direction. John rolled his eyes in response. "But here is a copy of the most updated list." Mycroft alarmingly had to conduct a quick search of his suit pockets before locating his mobile. The sidelong glance shared between John and Sherlock revealed genuine concern for the elder Holmes. Fumbling it briefly, Mycroft opened a file on his phone and handed it to Sherlock. John leaned over his shoulder to read.

"How far back does this list go?" Sherlock asked as he scrolled listlessly through the names.

"Two months." Mycroft leaned back into the chair. John looked up at him wide eyed. "It's the most up to date, but it's not the most complete. The full list is quite... lengthy."

"And how many pages is this... God, Mycroft. Half these people are elected world leaders." Brow furrowed, John squinted at the list.

Mycroft hummed in contemplation. "Only one third, I think."

"He's got a Nobel Peace Prize." John pointed at the list. "And..." He looked up at Mycroft. "At least two of these people are dead."

"Or so they'd have us believe." Sherlock tossed the mobile to Mycroft and stood. "You don't actually believe it's anyone on that list." He began pacing the length of the room.

"No."

Sherlock hummed in response.

"But you do have an idea." Looking from Mycroft to Sherlock, John couldn't shake the old feeling of being outnumbered and in the dark.

"No."

"No?" John raised his eyebrows. "Then how..."

"It's someone from within. Possibly someone you're responsible for burning." Sherlock stepped up onto the couch and started pulling remnants of articles and bits of evidence from the last case he'd worked before they'd gone on holiday. He left the big map of London where it was.

"If there's a possibility it's someone from within, why not do an internal investigation?" John mused out loud as he took the mugs back to the kitchen and refilled the kettle.

"Counterproductive!" Sherlock declared at the same time that Mycroft sighed and mumbled "I can't trust anyone there." He slumped back in his chair, and John realized how very near crashing he was.

"You're worried because Laura Lyons was so close." Rubbing the back of his neck, John sat down in his chair.

With a nod, Mycroft checked the time. "It's why... Brother, will you help me? Doctor Watson? I have to get back to the hospital, but I needed to insure your willingness to help."

Sherlock was already compiling lists and tacking them up to his evidence wall. He flapped his hand behind him.

"I'll take that as a yes. We'll both help." John stood then, pulled his laptop bag from its hook on the wall, and shoved his laptop in. He disappeared down the hall to the room he now shared with Sherlock, he hadn't quite worked up the nerve to call it 'their room' just yet, and returned a few minutes later with his hands full. Mycroft watched him with passive interest as he shoved a notepad, a worn paperback, the power cord for his laptop, and a spare clip for his gun into the bag. Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You need to rest. You can take my ro- the upstairs bedroom. Catch a quick kip and a shower. Eat something. I'll go sit with her until you get there." John looked up from pulling on his socks to glimpse a brief flash of relief cross Mycroft's face.

"Doc- John. You don't have to do that."

"Family, yeah?" Flashing a lopsided smile, John finished doing up his boots. He glanced at Sherlock who was still absorbed in his evidence wall. John shook his head; how the hell had Sherlock gleaned anything from the sparse conversation they'd just had?

"Thank you, John. I..." Mycroft rubbed his jaw. "I could stand to wash up." He leaned toward John. "You will take..."

John pulled his gun out so Mycroft could see it. He checked the safety and the clip out of sheer force of habit. The familiar sound of the metallic mechanisms caught Sherlock's attention, and he spun around, stepped to the coffee table, and was at John's side in an instant.

"No. We don't know who we're dealing with. You're staying here." Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "You're both staying here. I know you must have security at the hospital, Anthea will be fine..."

"Sherlock, love..." John stood directly in front of him. "I'm not going to let her wake up without a familiar face there. I've done that, it's... it's terrible." Sherlock groaned at the thought of John having ever had to wake up in a hospital bed. "And your brother is exhausted. He just needs to rest for a bit. Won't be long, yeah? I'll be back this afternoon."

"The last time we split up..."

"This is not the same thing." John wrapped Sherlock in his arms. "This is not Baskerville. This is me visiting a friend who's in hospital."

"With an assassin on the prowl," Sherlock grumbled into John's hair.

"καρδιά μου. I will be fine." Pulling out of the embrace, John grabbed his coat from its hook on the wall. Sherlock helped him on with it. There was still a damp chill in the air and John's shoulder had been aching since Baskerville. "I'm off. I'll pick up something for dinner on my way home, okay? Mycroft, get some sleep." John grabbed his bag and glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder. "Be nice to your brother."

Sherlock watched John disappear around the bend in the staircase, turned to glare at Mycroft, stepped into his boots and ran down the steps. "John!" He caught him just outside the door and pulled him into another embrace. "Please don't go. He's just..."

"Sherlock," John chuckled. "I know there are things he's not saying. I also know he's more likely to say them once you two are alone." He looked up into Sherlock's eyes and watched them change to something warm and affectionate. "I'm smarter than I look, you know."

"Pretty damn smart." Sherlock's smile was the genuine one only John was ever privileged enough to see. He stepped to the kerb and held out his hand for a cab. "Text me when you get there. And when you leave. And if the doctor comes in... Of if she wakes..."

"Sherlock! I know the drill." John laughed. "And I promise to be careful. Extra careful." Sherlock opened the car door for him and he slid in. "I promise."

"I'll fill you in when you get home." Sherlock glanced up at the windows of their flat and then back to John. "I don't like this."

"You've got this."

"We. We've got this. Together." Sherlock managed a small smile as he closed the car door. He watched the cab pull away, and then charged up the stairs to the flat. He found Mycroft exactly where he left him, staring into the fire.

"Was that completely necessary? Guilting him into going? Anything you tell me, you know I'm just going to tell him. We don't keep secrets from each other." Mycroft looked up at him with a bemused look. "Not anymore."

"What you and John discuss after I am gone is between the two of you. But, there are matters of the utmost delicacy... matters you have previously not been party to. I fear there are parts of my past that may play a role in this whole affair. You will have to discern for yourself what knowledge is safe to share with John."

"And you accuse me of being the dramatic one." Sherlock flopped into John's chair. "It all sounds very harrowing, I'm sure."

"No." Mycroft squared his shoulders, and his eyes flashed with a bit of their standard cold steel. "It's worse. I assure you."

 

* * *

 

John made his way up to Anthea's room, watching everyone he passed carefully. It wasn't until he spotted Greg pacing at the end of a corridor that he realized all of the men standing guard were actually officers in plain clothes. "Greg?"

"John! What are you... Is Mycroft with you?"

"No, he's back at Baker Street with Sherlock." Frowning, John took in Greg's worn appearance. Three day's stubble, his shirt was clearly two days old, and he reeked of old coffee and cigarette smoke. "What the hell is going on?"

"He called me a few days ago, asked me to look into all this..." Greg nodded toward Anthea's door. "Thought it a bit odd this wasn't being handled internally and all, but when Mycroft Holmes asks you to take lead on an investigation..."

"You can't really say no." John smirked when Greg rolled his eyes. He pushed the room door open and entered quietly. They stood at the end of the bed and took in the woman neither of them really knew well. John forced his gaze from the figure who looked too small, too delicate, too unlike the immovable force he was accustomed to, and turned to Greg. "So, the MET is handling this?" He frowned.

"Yes and no. I'm using my people... God I really miss Sally right now... and Mycroft's resources. But He's convinced we can't trust anyone at home office, so we're limited in what we can do."

"He thinks someone inside is responsible." John kept his voice low.

"I don't think he's wrong."

"Sounds like you need someone on the inside." John turned back to face Anthea, but he gave Greg a hard sidelong glance.

"Oh my god. Why didn't I think of that?" Greg pulled out his mobile. "I'm gonna..."

John nodded and pulled a chair nearer the side of the bed. He picked up Anthea's chart and settled in.  
  


* * *

  
_Andy, this is Greg Lestrade. I know we're waiting on your transfer papers to go through, but I need a favor. GL_

_Sure, mate. Sounds like an adventure. AG_

_How do you feel about undercover work? GL_

_My specialty. AG_

_Good. Great. I need someone inside MI6. GL_

_Shit. AG_

 

"Making plans with your other girlfriend?" Sally stretched awake and winced. "Damn."

"Nooo. That... That was your boss."

"Greg?" Sally gingerly sat up. "Your papers go through? That's great!"

Andy rubbed his face. "No, not exactly. He..."

"What? What is it? If they're denying you, I'll rebel. I'll make his life hell..."

"It's not that. He wants me to go undercover." Andy worried a loose thread on the edge of Sally's quilt. He frowned when he looked up at her. "He wants me to go back to MI6."

"Bloody hell. What is Mycroft up to now?"

 

* * *

 

"Yes dear, that's right." Mrs. Hudson's tone was dripping with sweetness that was not reflected in the grim look on her face. "Yes, Mrs. Turner. And you can invite the married ones as well." She hung up the old landline phone with a smart click. Turning, she quickly took the gaudy framed print off its hook to reveal a hidden wall safe. Before she could enter the combination a timer went off in the kitchen.

"Oh! My gingerbread."

 

* * *

 

"Holmes. What time is?" Watson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and leaned up on his elbow.

"Late, my dear." Holmes brushed his hand along Watson's jaw. "Go back to sleep."

"It's this case isn't it? It's got you troubled."

"I never sleep well during cases, you know this. I just find being away from your presence to be... hateful." Holmes sighed as Watson settled into his side.

"Holmes- Sherlock, what can I do..."

 

"M- Myc..."

John dropped his laptop onto the small table and jumped to his feet. "Shhh... Shhhh... Anthea. It's me, John. Doctor Watson?"

She was clearly in pain and disoriented, fear etched on her face, but after a moment recognition registered in her eyes.

"Let me call..." John reached for the button to page the doctor.

"Not yet... Myc? Where's he..."

"He's fine. You saved him." John took her hand in both of his. She closed her eyes and the tight line of her mouth relaxed some. She tried to turn her head toward him, but she was overcome with a spasm of pain. "I'm calling." He pushed the button before she could protest.

"Tell him..."

"I'll call right now." John assured her.

"No... Tell Myc, pr-protocol 4 dash 2."

The room was swarmed with nurses and doctors then, and John's presence was forgotten. He pulled out his mobile.

 

_She's awake. Asking for him. Does protocol 4-2 mean anything? JW_


	3. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For a moment nothing happened. Then after a second or so, nothing continued to happen." - Douglas Adams

Donovan took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't like it. I - no, we, barely survived Baskerville and now..."

"Donovan. I -" Andy stopped and kissed her. "I don't want to talk right now. I need you to just, hmmm...be here with me and I just-" he stopped and looked into her warm amber eyes, knowing she knew what he needed.

Sally nodded. She understood, even though they barely knew each other, they somehow had their own language already. She knew he was needed for this job, it was logical, but she didn't want to lose him before they-

"You aren't going to lose me, love." He took her hand and pressed it against his chest and covered it with his own. "I just want to be here with you, and not think for a little while, can you help me with that?"

She blew out the breath she had been holding and nodded. "I do believe I can do that, I'm a bit out of practice, but I'm willing to try, for you."

 

"Myc?" Sherlock banged on the loo door. "She's awake."

"What?" Mycroft opened the door and Sherlock took in the sight of his brother again. He had aged badly since Baskerville. With Laura Lyons' betrayal and now, the loss of... whatever Anthea was to him, he looked shell-shocked and ill-at-ease, uncertain of his place in the universe that he had spent his entire adult life creating.

"John said she told him to tell you protocol 4-2?"

"I knew I shouldn't have left her side. I have to go." He started to push past, but Sherlock stood his ground, and shook his head sadly.

"Myc. You need to rest." Sherlock placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "You are in rough shape right now, you know she would be angry that you let yourself go to hell like this. I haven't seen you this bad off since our parents died." He stopped and considered. "No. This is worse. You do love her. And now you know she loves you. That's what that code means. Right?"

"I can't - you don't understand. Damn. I'm sorry. Of course you do. Then you know why I have to go." Sherlock nodded and let his brother pass.

 

He's on his way, let her know. - SH

Will do. - JW

 

Mycroft tried to escape Baker Street without bumping into Mrs. Hudson. He should have called her. He knew that. Stop being an arse, Mycroft... the most she can do is kill you in 15 different ways...

"Mycroft Aloysius Holmes." Martha Hudson opened her door as he was about to knock. He flinched, wishing she was visibly angry, not using that soft, understanding tone...she knows and she's cleaned her flat from top to bottom twice over so she doesn't use number 4 to do me in.

"Martha. I can explain."

"You need your tea. Sit down."

He walked in and sat on her couch, and realised he had left his umbrella in the cab.

"Bugger."

Martha brought him a mug of strong, black tea with a touch of honey and a slab of gingerbread with lemon curd. She smiled that 'eat or I will have you arrested under the treason act' smile and he took a bite.

"How -"

"How did I let this happen? I wasn't listening, I let my guard down for the first time since Baskerville, we were talking, she stopped suddenly, turned her head and pushed me into the sidewalk. Then she-"

"are you? Is what I was going to ask, dear. You look like hell, and she would tell you the same thing. You need to go home and rest, shower and have a proper shave. I will know if you go back before tomorrow."

"But, I can't -" Mycroft looked down at his half eaten cake and shook his head.

"Whyever not?" Martha made him look her in the face.

"Because I love her."

"You just now understood this? Ah. Myc." 

"I don't even remember her real name anymore. She's been 'Anthea' for so long I don't know..."

"Violet. Her name is Violet, Myc." She watched as his eyes began to close. "Myc, love, you two don't need to be in the same room to take care of the other. You need to rest, so you can deal with what is coming."

Mycroft's eyes shot up questioningly and she nodded. "Yes, it seems he's back. And none too happy."

She watched him tumble onto the pillow and covered him with a blanket. She bent over him and ruffled his hair. "I am sorry that I had to resort to subterfuge, but I knew you couldn't resist the gingerbread, that was always your weakness."

 

Mycroft is safe. Let Anthea know he is being taken care of, he will visit tomorrow. - H

Gingerbread? - Mrs. T

Naturally. - H

 

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door to 221B, then let herself in. "Sherlock, love, oh, there you are." Sherlock was already pacing and pining the wall, muttering to himself. "Mycroft is resting comfortably in my flat. You may want to let John know."

"Hmm? Oh, Mrs. Hudson? Right - Mycroft asleep in your flat - the gingerbread? Again? He always falls for that. I knew you'd be able to - God, Hudders, what a mess." He blew his curls from his eyes and fell into his chair. "I don't know what I would do in his place."

"Yes, you do. You flipped out. You just went through the same thing, and you lost yer marbles, love."

Sherlock looked at her and shrugged. "Yes. Well. I - he - we..." He couldn't finish what he was trying to say, but he knew she got the gist.

"Quite so. The married ones are out of town, you should have some quiet while you try to work out this puzzle dear. I'll take care of Mycroft - let John know, hmm?"

"Right. Thank you, Hudders, don't know what we'd do without you."

"Good thing you will never have to find out." She let herself out as he pulled out his mobile.

 

Mycroft is resting. Will see her tomorrow. - SH

Gingerbread? - JW

Yup. Love you. - SH

Love you, καρδιά μου - JW

 

Anthea looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"He's resting at Mrs. Hudson's flat."

"How is he?" She asked quietly. 

"He stayed with you until this morning, didn't sleep for a week. Your assistant brought him clothing, but he never left your side."

She rolled her eyes. "Idiot."

"You would have done the same for him."

She glared at him. "How do - right. Yes. I - am curiously attached to the least emotional person on the planet."

"He's a right mess."

"Is he? Interesting -" She almost allowed a small smile to crease her features, but then she grabbed John's hand. "John, something's wrong. Tell him, please that I -?"

"I promise." John held on tightly to her hand as he pressed the alarm.

 

Watson sighed as he rubbed his eyes. "Holmes?"

"Hmmm...?"

"You need to rest."

"Can't. New developments...have to keep going." Holmes paced the room, searching through the list of enemies that kept growing. So many....

"καρδιά μου. Bed. Now."

 

"John?"

John looked up to see Greg standing over him. He sighed and closed his laptop again. "You need to go home."

"Can't."

"You need to get some rest. I'm not leaving til Mycroft is back, there are guards everywhere."

"And yet, someone still managed to poison her. Mycroft is going to hit the roof when he hears." Greg rubbed his face. "I have to get Andy back in to MI-6 ASAP."

"Donovan isn't going to like it."

"No, but I'll fix it so she goes with him, so to speak."

John nodded, and sipped his coffee. "Go home, seriously. Say hi to Molly for me."

 

Someone managed to poison her IV with me sitting here. She's stable, it was the belladonna. We had the antidote on hand. - JW

Damn. - SH

I have to stay. - JW

I know. - SH

I trust you. I love you. I need time to think anyway. Do you want me there with you? - SH

No. You need room to pace. I love you. - JW

 

Molly yawned as she opened the door. "Love? I didn't think I'd see you tonight - with the poisoning and all-"

Greg pushed his fingers into her hair and pulled her into a deep, needy kiss. "I needed to see you, and John made me leave." He admitted with a slight roll of his eyes.

"Doctors know best, after all." She whispered as she yanked him into her flat, spun him around and pushed the door shut with her foot.

 

Mrs. Hudson sat in her chair watching her stories, the volume turned up to cover Mycroft's rumbling snores.

She glanced over at him and shook her head."Sleep, my boy. It's going to be a long time til you sleep this much again anytime soon."


	4. Pandora's Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened."_  
>  — Douglas Adams

Sherlock stood still, not a twitch nor a sway, on the coffee table, staring at the evidence wall. It really was a good thing John wasn't home... He wasn't was he? Oh god, had he come in only to have Sherlock ignore him? He spun around. No John in his armchair, no John's coat on the hook. With a nod, Sherlock turned back to his wall. 

It was a thing of beauty, really. Mycroft had given him a list of a dozen criminals, truly vile, despicable human beings, who he thought could have arranged the assassination attempts, and who also had enough pull, political or otherwise, to influence and sway the loyalties of someone working within the sphere of British Intelligence. Sherlock had organized them, ordered them based on severity of crime, color coded them, cross-referenced their crimes and regions of influence, and constructed a timeline of when each individual would have crossed paths with his brother. He'd used brightly colored note cards and assorted pushpins, made an intricate, if convoluted, web from twine, attached articles and assorted other detritus, and, because his mind required it of him, he'd torn it all down and restructured it twice.

He'd paced for hours. First the length of the room, then back and forth across the room, and finally up and down the stairs to John's old room. He glanced back at John's chair -- still wasn't home. He paced so long, and so late, Mrs. Hudson stormed up after him and threatened to tie him to his chair (he believed she would, too) and leave him there until John came home. And since John returning (he checked again, just to be sure) was dependent on Mycroft waking from his "nap," they had no real timeline to determine how long that would be. The gingerbread had been particularly effective. Sherlock had gone for his violin then, but Mrs. Hudson threatened him with tea if he even thought about torturing the poor instrument.

So, Sherlock stood perfectly still, staring at his wall. He was stuck. No, not stuck. The problem wasn't Sherlock. The problem was that none of these criminals fit the crime. He jumped down from the coffee table to retrieve a red marker, and noticed a tray with tea and cake on the table. She'd seen through with her threat, then. Sherlock smiled fondly at the tray, and wondered how long it had been there. The tea had long gone cold, so he reached for the cake. John would want him to eat something. He inspected it before he took a bite. Ah. John would not necessarily want him to be drugged by their devious landlady. Sherlock dropped the gingerbread back to its plate and rummaged around until he found the marker.

Stepping up onto the couch, Sherlock began reviewing his list of criminals all over again. "No. No. Zero motivation. Out of the business three years ago. No. Nope. No. Actually is dead. Was at her granddaughter's ballet recital. No. Filming an American reality television program." Sherlock drew bold red X's through the faces as he marked them off his list. He was left with three. He carefully relocated their information to the center of his wall in descending order of likelihood.

At the bottom of his list was Wilhelm Von Bork. A refugee from East Germany during the Cold War, Von Bork had offered his services as an informant, and had managed to maintain contact with former colleagues who were involved in an organization attempting to rebuild the Third Reich. The group was still active after the wall fell, and Von Bork was eventually revealed to be a double agent. One of Mycroft's first field operations ended in Von Bork reportedly dying in a house fire. There had been, however, a recent increase in chatter among some of his former contacts, and there were rumors that the fire had been staged. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Von Bork had the element of being familiar, even friendly, with individuals at Home Office, but being outed for espionage was hardly motive for a sniper attack and a poisoning. Mycroft had been so young in his role at MI6, he would have been a virtual unknown. Improbable, though not impossible. He drew only a slash through Von Bork's face.

Next on the list was Adelbert Gruner, or "The Baron," as his business associates knew him. He was the head of a human trafficking ring that had originated out of Austria. He had also built quite the reputation as an arms dealer. He had influence and contacts all across Europe and most of Asia, but nothing could ever be pinned directly to him within the UK. When the wealthy socialite had gone missing, MI6 thought they had Gruner for sure, but her body showed up in Thailand with no recoverable evidence and a cold trail; there was little that could be done. The best that Mycroft could manage was to extradite Gruner back to Austria, where officials finally caught a break and found evidence against him. He'd been handed over to the United Nations, operating under the Treaty of Extradition, to be transported home, and they had lost him somewhere along the way. Sherlock tapped the marker against his chin. It was unlikely Gruner would hold Mycroft personally responsible for the botched extradition, which actually only added to his notoriety and helped grow his business. But, he was power hungry, and he didn't seem above assassination for assassination's sake. He drew a question mark over Gruner's face.

Last up, and Sherlock cringed at his name, was media magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen. Self proclaimed non-villain, there didn't seem to be anyone who could escape his grasp. Motivated by greed, his weapon of choice was blackmail. He didn't need a vast network to operate, he bought and sold people and their secrets at his leisure. He had the most to gain from a breach in MI6 security, but what purpose would Mycroft's death serve? He'd be of far more value alive. And assassination was not Magnussen's method of operation. He didn't need to have people murdered. By the time he finished with them, they nearly always killed themselves. Sherlock capped the marker. He was sure Magnussen hadn't arranged the hit on Mycroft, or the attempt on Anthea. It was possible, however, he stood to gain from a wealth of intelligence if Mycroft were destroyed.

He stepped from the couch to the coffee table and jumped to the floor. Still no John. He sighed and tossed the marker to the table. Despite the fact that he wouldn't get it for a few more hours, Sherlock texted Mycroft letting him know a conversation with Magnussen was in order. After a second thought, he sent another.

_And when you're awake, maybe you'll be inclined to tell me who the real criminal is. SH_

Scrolling through his text updates from John, Sherlock picked absently at the... "Oh, damn." He spit the mouthful of gingerbread into a napkin, but it was too late. He'd already swallowed two bites. He checked the time, and just barely made it to his bed before he collapsed.

 

"Which one are you?" John sounded completely exhausted.

Sherlock rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked. He was looking at his evidence wall; it was exactly as he'd left it, but the sitting room was different. Older. Oh. Damn. "John? Uhm... W-watson?" He turned to face his friend.

John glanced back at him and managed a small smile. "καρδιά μου. I'm glad. I don't think I could handle the other guy right now..."

With a huffed laugh, Sherlock stepped off the velveteen settee, and moved to stand beside John, who was knelt on the floor. "Hmm, at least he hasn't made a pass at you. The other you..."

Without looking up from what he was doing, John elbowed Sherlock's knee. Sherlock flopped into "his" chair with a grunt. John rolled his eyes.

"John, what are you... Holmes is not going to be happy." He motioned to the stacks of monographs, the scattered journals, and the medical tomes open and spread all over the floor.

"I have to figure out how... How did they get in past me? Why didn't I see?" He looked up then, and even in the dim lamp light, Sherlock's breath stuttered at the storm that seemed to be brewing in John’s eyes.

"John, it wasn't your fault. Whoever did this is a professional. You weren't meant to see." Sherlock slid to his knees so he was right next to John.

"I'm a goddamn doctor, Sherlock! I'm suppose to be a professional too. But I missed it. She almost..." John exhaled deeply. "You would've seen it."

Sherlock pulled him to his chest, wrapped his arms around him, and felt John relax against him. "True."

John huffed a laugh. "Don't be an arse." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "I'm so tired."

"Come home."

"You know I can't. Not yet. Not until Mycroft gets here."

"Could be hours yet," Sherlock pouted.

"Hours." John repeated with a sigh. He tensed and leaned back from Sherlock. "Hours. Shit." He pushed himself up to standing. Sherlock grabbed his hand and held him in place.

"John?"

"Time release." John pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes. "Of course! At Baskerville, Molly found the notes about the time release variant of the belladonna, but we never found the vials." He looked down at Sherlock who was beaming up at him. "Don't be smug."

Sherlock laughed as he stood up. He pulled John into another embrace and whispered, "Brilliant, John."

John startled awake at the ping indicating an incoming email. He was slumped across the small wheeled table, his face pressed into the keyboard of his laptop. He sniffed, and the distinct scent of hospital assaulted his nose. Right.

Sitting up slowly, John rolled his stiff shoulders. "Damn." He stood and checked Anthea's vitals and noted steady improvement. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sat back down to his laptop.

He glanced at the document he'd had open; he'd not managed much...

 

Watson caught caught Holmes by the hand and pressed a gentle kiss to his palm.

"Watson," he shook his head. "I must..."

Another kiss, this time over the pulse point. Holmes cupped Watson's jaw with his free hand.

"My dear, ikjfhfif bxjejdjfkfjhhsk ehdhdm bbbbbnbbbbnnnjjjj

 

"Oh god." John chuckled to himself. He deleted the evidence of his impromptu nap, and saved the document. He opened his email and was relieved to find the links to the hospital CCTV footage. Hours and hours of footage.

He clicked open the link for earlier that day and skipped though the long stretches of just Mycroft sitting beside Anthea's bed. John felt like he was intruding on something sacred as he watched Mycroft gingerly take her hand and brush a light kiss on her fingertips.

John started to skip the video ahead but slowed it down as two nurses entered the frame. One seemed to naturally take the lead, checking vitals, checking medication drips. The second nurse stayed back, holding a tote of supplies. The first nurse held out her hand and the second handed her a saline bag. Then another bag. And then...

"Shit" John hissed as he backed the video up and watched it again. Again. Again and again.

Mycroft had been right there, but he'd been focused on mapping the lines of Anthea's palm. He hadn't seen it. Hell, if John hadn't been looking for it, he definitely wouldn't have seen it.

The first nurse must have asked for the anticoagulant injection. The second nurse, very descretely, pulled a prepared dose from her pocket rather than the tote. The lead nurse never saw a thing. Mycroft was clueless.

He took a screen shot and zoomed in on the nurse's face.

 

_Andy, I know it's late but I'm at the hospital with Anthea. She was dosed with a variant of the belladonna. She'll live, but... JW_

_Bloody hell. I'm up now, doc. What can I do? AG_

_I think I found the nurse who dosed her. I was hoping you still had that facial recognition software on your laptop. JW_

_Let me go get it. Go ahead and send it. AG_

 

"Al?" Sally mumbled. She rolled over and found the other side of the bed empty. She pushed herself up with a groan, wrapped her robe around herself and shuffled out to find Andy hunched over his laptop in the dark kitchen.

"Al, what's going on?"

"Anthea was poisoned."

Sally blanched. "Is she..."

"She'll survive. John thinks he found the nurse who dosed her on the video feed." His email pinged. "He's sending me the picture to run through the facial recognition algorithm."

Sally nodded, and shuffled over to glimpse over his shoulder.

"Son of a bitch." Andy enhanced the image. He looked up at Sally. "Why is it that ever since I met you, suddenly everyone I have ever known is a psychopathic homicidal maniac?"

"What?" Sally put put her hand on Andy's shoulder.

"I know her."

 

_Sorry doc. No software needed. I recognize her. AG_

_Damn. Who is she? JW_

_Former CIA, was on loan to MI6. She got made on a mission. Went mercenary after that. AG_

_SHIT. JW_

_Be careful, doc. She's got no moral compass. AG_

_You got a name? JW_

_We called her Mary. AG_

 

_Greg, I know I sent you home, but we've got a problem. JW_

_Andy identified the nurse who administered the poison. JW_

_Dammit. On my way. GL_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baron Adelbert Gruner (villain from "The Illustrious Client")
> 
> Von Bork (German spy from "His Last Bow")
> 
> CAM is based on the Mofftiss version.
> 
> And then, of course... Mary.


	5. "When Sorrows Come..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing travels faster than the speed of light, with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws." - Douglas Adams

Mycroft opened his eyes to a cup of tea under his nose. He took the cup and the offered paracetamol with as much good grace as he could muster.

"Yes, I know, I deserved it. But does it always have to be the gingerbread?"

Mrs. Hudson smirked at him, "It works every time, why mess with perfection?"

"I do have to go now." He got up carefully, kissed her cheek and walked to the door. "I'll give her your love."

She nodded sadly as he shut the door behind him. She rolled her eyes as a muffled ping broke the silence. She dug Mycroft's phone out from the couch cushion and pulled up a text from John. "Damn." 

 

Anthea poisoned with belladonna, person responsible known. Mary, former CIA, loaned to MI-6, then went rogue, off radar until now, Andy confirmed. Assuming all kinds of bad news? - JW

 

"You have no idea, love." Mrs. Hudson sat down hard, took a deep breath, then fired off a text.

 

No doubt now. He is back. - H

Poor Myc. - Mrs. T

Say a prayer for all of us, Mrs. T. We're in for a bumpy ride. - H

 

Mycroft summoned a cab, and felt for his phone. "Damn. Bart's, make it snappy, extra ten in it for you if you get me there in five."

"Yessir - "

The cabbie made it there in three and a half, Mycroft threw a wad of notes at him and dashed inside. He couldn't stand to wait for the elevators, so ran up the five flights of stairs, nearly falling into Anthea's room, before managing to collect himself.

"Mycroft? You got my text? The antidote - oh bugger - you didn't see it."

"John?" Mycroft's voice sent shivers down John's spine and his eyes reminded him of Sherlock's right before one of his monumental strops.

"Time released version of the belladonna. We identified the 'nurse' who helped to administer it."

"When?" Mycroft whispered.

"While you were sitting with her, it took me watching the video over and over to be sure, she was very clever. Even if you had been expecting it, you wouldn't have-"

"She?" Mycroft's voice trembled slightly.

John nodded. "Andy has confirmed it's Mary, CIA, worked briefly for MI-6, then went rogue? Sound fam- Myc?"

"John - get him a seat before he falls over," Anthea whispered, suddenly. "And get him some water, please. We need a moment."

John gave up his seat to Mycroft and quietly left the room.

"They don't know, do they." Anthea spoke softly but strongly at the man who all but fell into the chair. "You lied to Sherlock when you got him out of Serbia. He doesn't know. You were hoping someone else would finish the job for you."

"Anthea - there is no evidence that he is still alive - he has not been seen since that day -" Mycroft buried his face in his hands. "Mary may be working on her own."

"She is dangerous enough, love. You of all people know that -"

Mycroft's hands dropped and his eyes glistened. "Protocol 4-2, hmmm?"

Anthea's eyes twinkled back at him. "Always, you idiot, but now isn't the time. You have to tell John. NOW. Or I will."

"You have to tell me what?"

 

Sherlock woke with a snort, he looked around, trying to remember when and where he was. Gingerbread. Baker Street - right. No John. John. Time released belladonna. Myc. Myc is lying about something important. Wait. How do I know that?

 

"You'll need the chair, John."

"Mycroft." 

"You need to hear me out, I did what I did because I believed it was the right course of action, and it was at the time, I still think it to be the case now. You have to believe me, Sherlock - he wouldn't be here today if I had done otherwise."

John nodded, but Mycroft could see the tension in his face. He looked at Anthea's face, her eyes were tearing up, but she nodded and he knew he had no choice.

"When I got Sherlock out, out of Serbia, he was barely alive, he had been tortured for weeks - I was lucky to find him when I did." He paused, and looked at his hands.

"Keep going, Myc," Anthea murmured.

"He had removed every single member of Moriarty's network. Except one. Colonel Moran. Moriarty's number two. Sherlock almost had him, several times, but each time he managed to slip away. On the plane home, he wouldn't rest until I told him it was over. 'Even Moran?' he had insisted. 'Tell me Moran is finished? Please, Myc?' And I did. Moran was the one he wanted most. The one he nearly got killed in Serbia for."

John spoke quietly but sharply. "Why was he so important, Mycroft?"

"He had his sights on you the day Sherlock 'died'."

"Fuck."

"It's worse than that, John. So much worse. Moran had been MI-6 before the war, before Afghanistan, before 9-11, the best of the best, but he went bad; went too deeply undercover, we don't know what happened, but he turned. The powers that be sent him to war, hoping - "

"God. And Mary? Mary is his gun, so to speak?"

"We have reasons to suspect -"

" 'Reasons to suspect'...never heard those words before. Damn it, Mycroft! And we have no idea where Mary is at the moment. We don't know if Moran is alive, if he is, we don't know where he is either?" Mycroft nodded his head in agreement. "And Sherlock is at Baker Street on his own. And he has no fucking clue. Right?" Mycroft nodded again, and wouldn't lift his eyes to meet John's.

 

I need you to go to Baker Street now - please - JW

What's up? - AG

I just need you to check on Sherlock. I need to be sure he's safe - JW

Right - AG

 

"You are coming back to Baker Street with me and you are going to tell your brother what you just told me. You are going to look him in the eye when you tell him, and you are going to fall to your fucking knees and beg for his fucking forgiveness. If I had known, I never would have brought him back here. We would never have come back from Greece if I had known, Mycroft. If I had known, you would have never seen him again. Do you hear me?"

 

"What's up, Al?" Donovan was just getting out of the shower when she saw him pull his piece from the drawer.

"I need to go check on Sherlock, I've never seen a text look pissed off before."

"Shit. I'm coming with you."

"Would expect nothing else, love."

 

Andy and Donovan quietly opened the door and made it past Mrs. Hudson's flat without a sound. They climbed the steps in silence, Donovan leading the way, "Skip this next step, it - fuck!" 

"Sorry." Andy whispered.

They made it to the door, which was unlocked and slightly ajar as always. "Damn. On my count, one, two - Three!"

"What the fuck, Donovan?" Sherlock spun round and glared at her. "Why are you - ?" He shook his head and sighed. "John sent you. Mycroft just gave him some bad news. Tea's almost ready. Have a seat. I'm just -"

"Sherlock?" Donovan whispered, though she didn't know why.

"I know who tried to kill my brother, Donovan." Sherlock said the words almost apologetically, and turned back to the wall, dismantled his map of criminal masterminds, and replaced it with a single photo of a man in desert camouflage, his features barely distinguishable beneath the face paint.

Andy's jaw dropped.

"If you two don't want to get involved with this, just say the word. This is something I thought I had finished over five years ago. I thought John was safe. I thought I was finally done paying for my -"

"No way, Holmes. You and John are, mmm...family now. No way are we letting you two do this on your own. You are not alone this time."

Sherlock turned and looked at her fiercely determined face. "You don't know what you are getting yourselves into."

"We survived Baskerville, Sherlock." Andy grabbed Donovan's hand. "We have your backs."

Sherlock nodded and turned back towards the wall as John and Mycroft slowly made their way through the door.

"His name was, or perhaps I should say is, Sebastian Moran," Sherlock began. "And I spent two years playing dead so I could kill him."

"Sherlock." John whispered.

"Don't. I need to tell them so they know what they are signing up for. You don't even know John. I never wanted you to know, but either he is back, or someone is acting in his name. I have to finish this."


	6. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A fugue of voices now, clamoring explanations, of a disaster unavertable, a world to be destroyed, a surge of helplessness, a spasm of despair, a dying fall, again the break of words._ -Douglas Adams

_"Milo? Milorad?" Sherlock breathed the name as he crept through the kitchen and into the main room._

_It wasn't right. It wasn't... Too quiet. The old stereo in the corner, with the horrible reception that crackled and popped should have been on. Milorad always had the radio on. Sherlock limped closer. It hadn't been turned off, the cord had been cut._

_He made his way to the stairs, careful to tread lightly, and stopped at the hall closet. Despite the dark, he deftly reached between the quilts folded neatly on the top shelf and retrieved the knife he'd hidden there months ago._

_"Milo? Jelena? Anja?" Standing in the relative shelter of the closet, Sherlock took in the hallway that the family bedrooms branched off from. The small light that stayed on all night in the loo was off. There was no upbeat pop music escaping from under the door to Jelena's room -- and the door was standing ajar. The blinds that Milo always drew closed before bed were still open._

_The only thing that seemed as it should be was the soft glow of the fairy lights in little Anja's room._

_This family, just Milorad and his two young daughters, had offered Sherlock their home as a refuge. He'd known better. After the first time, he never should have come back. But after months and months on the hunt, sometimes on the run, all too often injured, and always heartsick and lonely, he'd found he needed the warmth of the little family in the cozy little house, tucked into the small village overlooked by the monastery._

_The first time had been convenience, they were in Montenegro, but they were so very near the border of Serbia, and Sherlock had figured out early that his errand in Serbia would be the end game. It was the reason he'd stopped there that night. The plan was to meet a contact just across the border, and within a week, ten days at most, the matter would be done, Moriarty's network would be destroyed, and Sherlock would be on his way back to London. To Baker Street. To John._

_He'd come to say goodbye. To thank Milorad for his hospitality, and to give the girls the brightly colored bangles he'd picked up in Istanbul._

_Breathing deeply through his nose, Sherlock swallowed hard against the bile that threatened when he caught the scent. Thick, heavy... metallic._

_Bypassing the other bedrooms, he hurried to Anja's door. He was repeating a soft litany of "no, no, please no, no, not them, please no," the closest thing to a prayer he knew, as he stepped in..._

_Milo and his daughters were huddled together on the floor. They almost look as if they were asleep, save for the look of terror on Anja's face. Single bullet wounds. Precise. Exact. Quick. Milorad had watched his daughters die. Sherlock knew he needed to alert the police. He needed to get word to his contact in Serbia. And Mycroft. He needed to check in with a handful of other contacts he'd made along the way. John. He needed to check on John. He needed..._

_Then he noticed the piece of paper -- no, a photograph -- in Milo's hand. Sherlock worked it free, and his strength gave out. He crumpled to the floor and stayed there for far too long, heaving silent sobs, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that nearly two years threatened to come unraveled. Sherlock wept until he heard a downstairs window shatter, and the undeniable roar of a rapidly spreading fire._

_He'd been found, and he was being driven to his last target. He didn't dare meet with his Serbian contact, and risk another life. Someone was expecting him, compelling him forward. Best not keep them waiting._

_Placing a gentle kiss atop the heads of these, his friends, Sherlock tucked the photograph, a screen shot from security footage of John and Mycroft deep in conversation dated only two days prior, into his pocket, and climbed out the back window._

 

"The reason I jumped, was simple." Sherlock turned from the evidence wall and stepped down from the couch at the pained sound John made. "To me. To my mind, it was the only way. Moriarty had snipers ready if I didn't jump. One was trained on Mrs. Hudson. One on Lestrade."

Sally's hands covered her mouth when she gasped. Her knees went weak, and Andy caught her, easily guiding her down, so that he was holding her against himself as he sat on the floor. "I... I didn't... Shit. God dammit." Sally buried her face in Andy's shirt and fought against the tears.

Sherlock swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. "The uhm, the third sniper, who was later identified as Moran, was ready to kill John." John took a step toward him, but Sherlock shook his head and took a step back. "And then Moriarty killed himself, so I'd have no choice but to jump. There was no way to call off the hits otherwise. I'd suspected he would try to trick me. So... we faked it. Mycroft organized everything, and Molly made sure the other body was..." Sherlock shuddered, and he glanced around the room.

"I spent almost two years sabotaging and ruining Moriarty's network and hunting Moran. No matter how much progress I made, he was always two steps ahead of me. And then, near the end, people started dying. People in places I had just left. Anyone who offered me help or assistance, anyone who might've been seen as a traitor for letting me live. People who were my friends... It makes sense now, if he'd picked up a second, a hired gun- this Mary along the way. There were entire weeks it seemed like he was a destructive force moving ahead of me, and chasing me from behind at the same time... My shadow, leaving death in my wake." He exhaled deeply and turned to peer out the window.

"He's ruthless. They are monsters together. Moran doesn't care about human life if it's in the way of his agenda. When I was in Serbia, the torture, the physical elements were bad, but the mental..."

"I am sorry, brother." Mycroft was sitting in John's chair, his hands balled into fists in his lap, and he was staring at the carpet just in front of Sherlock's feet. "I went in personally to retrieve you and to see to Moran's death myself. But by the time I made my move, he was gone, unaccounted for. There was reason to believe he'd been killed in a firefight a few weeks later, but..." Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Sherlock turned to face him, his expression distressingly unreadable. "I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly sorry. I lied to you then because you wouldn't agree to leave, you wouldn't come home, until I'd promised... You would have died, and I-I couldn't..."

Sherlock staggered under the weight of Mycroft's words. John was there, in an instant, catching him, supporting him, holding him, pulling him impossibly close. "I've got you. I'm here, love." John continued soothing and whispering. Sherlock had his arms around John, both hands clenched tight holding on to fistfuls of John's jumper, his face pressed to John's neck, and the majority of his weight resting against him. "C'mon, καρδιά μου." John attempted to pull him toward the bedroom.

"No, John, no." Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder, but made no effort to stand on his own. "No time. Moran... Moran's here. We have to plan. And we... Oh god, John, I have to..." His breathing was near panic level, and he clung more desperately to John.

"Sherlock, καρδιά μου, I know. I know all those things. But..." He paused for a moment and sighed. "Sherlock, I'm tired. I haven't slept. I'm bloody exhausted, and this is going to get so much worse before it gets better. We don't know what we're even planning for, and I just... I need to rest. For just a few minutes. Please. You don't have to, but I..." He tried to turn away, but Sherlock wouldn't let him go. He nodded against John's neck and let John lead him.

"Wait..." Sherlock whispered. He turned to Mycroft, who was still avoiding eye contact. Sherlock pulled him up from the chair by his lapels and forced him to meet his gaze. "You lied to me..." Sherlock sniffed. "You lied, but you brought me home. You saved my life and brought me back to John. And we're..." He glanced at John and then back at Mycroft. He wrapped him in a tight embrace. "Thank you."


	7. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It can be very dangerous to see things from somebody else's point of view without the proper training.”  
> -Douglas Adams

They all waited for the click of the door, that would allow them space to breathe. It never came. John left the door open just a crack, to let a bit of light in, so they could better fight the nightmares that were sure to find them.

"I - I should go back to Anthea. Just so she knows John didn't -" Mycroft stopped as he saw Andy and Donovan observing him with new eyes.

"Mycroft, I don't think it's safe for you to -" Donovan began, when she had fully recovered her composure.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and if something happens to me -" He shrugged, then stopped as he saw Mrs. Hudson coming towards him.

"I'm not sure whether to smack you or kiss you, Mycroft Holmes. I should probably do both. You need to tell these young people about Mary Morstan. So they understand what they are going up against."

Andy looked at Mycroft, then at Mrs. Hudson and started to laugh. "You're kidding me, right? I've become a bit of an MI-6 history buff, since I had all that, uhm, time on my hands - and you, 'Mrs. Hudson' are one of my heroes. Back during the Cold War, you did every crazy thing you could even hope to think of, smuggling authors, artists, musicians, from the Soviet Union, through the Iron Curtain and into the West. You knew what would happen if you got caught. You did get caught, just the once, your last job. And you, Mycroft, you and 'Anthea' busted her out - you were just raw recruits and - you guys are legends. And I'm being a total arse."

"Show them, Myc, then they will take you to see Anthea."

"Hud-" Mycroft nodded his head, and slowly rolled up his sleeves to reveal deep scars around his wrists and track marks still visible after twenty years, they ran up his arm, and Donovan sensed that these were injections not taken willingly.

"It was our first assignment after we got Mrs. Hudson home; I was cocky. The only information I had on Mary Morstan was that she was very young, and very good and without a conscience. She was all of that and more. She was thirteen..."

Mycroft stopped and turned as he saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "NO. He doesn't need to know. I don't want him to know; Hudders, please."

Sherlock walked into the room and caught his brother in his arms. "Shh. I have you. I can imagine. No. I can more than imagine, Myc. Mrs. Hudson. I know he has made his share of mistakes, he is paying for them dearly, has paid enough already. I am more than aware of what Ms. Morstan is capable of. Andy, Donovan, please take him to be with Anthea. They need to be together right now."

Andy and Donovan nodded and waited for Mycroft to recover himself, then escorted him downstairs, where they hailed a cab to Bart's.

Mrs. Hudson sighed at Sherlock before taking him in her arms. "You are remarkable, love. I know true forgiveness when I see it, and you did your brother and yourself a service tonight. Now, you need to rest. John needs you to be at his side. I will keep an eye on things, no one will bother you tonight. I am very proud of you, Sherlock Holmes. Now, off to bed with you. Go!"

With a bit of a smirk, Sherlock kissed the top of her head and turned towards the bedroom."Thank you, Hudders," he managed before he went into their room and shut the door.

John sat up sharply.

"Shh, I'm here, Andy and Donovan are taking Mycroft to Anthea, Mrs. Hudson is standing guard tonight. Just rest, love." Sherlock took John into his arms and they were sound asleep in minutes.


	8. Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"'All through my life I've had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was.'_  
>  _"'No,' said the old man, 'that's just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that.'"_  
>  -Douglas Adams

It was well after midnight when Mycroft convinced Andy and Sally it was safe to go home.

"Andrew, I have told you enough stories for one evening. While the interest in our past field work, adventures as you called them, is flattering, the unwarranted hero worship is not. We simply do our jobs, better than most, granted, and that is all. We are not heroes." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

"But..."

"Al, c'mon." Sally chuckled. "You've exhausted the poor man. Anthea's been asleep for hours, and I'm done." She leaned against him, and Andy finally noticed the way her face was pinched. She was overly tired and in pain.

"Damn. Sorry love." Andy pulled her up from her chair and tucked Sally against his side. He kissed her forehead and then started leading her out.

"Mycroft, uhm- thanks. Thank you."

"Good night, Andrew. Sally." He waved them on and stood to stretch. "I know you've been faking. You're good, but not that good."

"Damn." Anthea smiled up at him. "He looks up to you. He needs someone..."

"He'd be better served with the likes of John Watson."

"Love, you are amazing. Brilliant. The best at what you do. But you can be so dense."

"Please, do go on." Mycroft huffed a laugh.

"Well, for one, you're my hero."

Mycroft blinked at her, shocked. When he finally recovered, he leaned down and brushed a gentle, fleeting kiss on her lips. "I... I'm sorry..." He stood to turn away. She grabbed his arm.

"Mycroft Holmes, if you walk away now, I'll get up out of this bed and murder you myself."

"I wish you would." He whispered.

"Just inflammation, love. I have feeling and some movement. It's just going to take time." She pulled his hand toward her and kissed his knuckles. "Please Myc?"

He nodded and leaned down once more for a kiss that conveyed both gentleness and a lifetime of adoration. They both panted to catch their breath after.

"Took you long enough." Anthea grinned up at him.

He hummed and brushed the hair back from her face.

"Oh, sorry. I'll come back!" An orderly had come into the room unnoticed, and backed out quietly. They both giggled until they heard the commotion in the hall.

"Get him out of here!" Greg shouted before he entered the room.

"Problem, detective?"

Greg held up a mobile. "Arsehole was taking pictures." He tossed the phone to Mycroft.

Anthea paled as Mycroft scrolled through the snaps of her chart, them kissing, even her wound. With a roar, Mycroft threw the phone across the room and it shattered against the wall.

"He wouldn't tell me who he's working for."

"I already know. Damn him." Mycroft kicked the chair away. "Of course he would make his move now." He searched for something else to throw, but settled on kicking the chair again.

Greg looked helplessly at Anthea. "Charles Augustus Magnussen," she supplied.

"The newspaper man? Bloody hell."

"Oh, I'll show him hell," Mycroft seethed.

 

* * *

 

He could see light. Sherlock knew the sun was shining. Almost blindingly so. But his vision was obscured, and he was... stuck? He couldn’t quite... Then he heard it, someone was moving...

"Hello? Help? Please?"

"Oy! What are you doing down there. Are you stuck?"

"Yyyes - uhm, can you get someone?"

"I can do better than that, can you see my hand?"

"No - n- wait wiggle your fingers? Yes! I see you."

"Grab my hand, and I'll pull you out, yeah?"

"I'm scared, John -"

"Sherlock?"

"John, why are we here?"

 

John blinked in the late morning light. Sherlock was mumbling in his sleep, but not lost in a nightmare. Somehow, they managed a few hours rest without the dark images of a few hours earlier.

"Tea...damn, Bluebell needs a walk..."

"Love, I'm going to get Bluebell from Mrs. Hudson, take her for a walk. I'll bring home something for you to ignore."

"Mmmmmph."

John dressed quietly, and threw on an old hoodie, and a jacket he hadn't worn in years, then bent over Sherlock and laid a kiss on his forehead before tiptoeing out of their room. "Paranoid, you are."

"Dammit. Alright, Mrs. Hudson. Who the hell are you really?"

Martha Hudson lowered her weapon and sighed. "Take Bluebell for a walk, bring home some bacon rolls and I'll tell you, John. I'll tell you why Sebastian Moran is entirely and utterly my fault."

"I... I've got nothing to say to that. I- I don't..." John shook his head and sighed.

"Take your gun, dear."

John chuckled. "And I'm the paranoid one?" He pulled his gun out just so she could see it.

"Precautions, love."

Rolling his eyes and pulling up his hood, John let Bluebell take lead. She headed for the park, and he decided it couldn't hurt to let her run a bit.

Glancing around, John sniffed and threw the stick Bluebell had found. It wasn't the same one he'd originally thrown, she kept finding bigger and better ones. "You'll love Kya," he mumbled to her when she returned with a pinecone instead of a stick. "Kindred spirits, I think." He tossed the pinecone and scanned the area around them.

He felt a sense of unease deep in the pit of his stomach, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Sherlock might not put much stock in gut feelings and sixth senses, but John knew he hadn’t seen the things he'd seen and done the things he'd done in the army without it. Something was not right. He whistled and Bluebell came bounding back.

"C'mon girl," he searched the treeline as he reconnected her lead. "I think we should head back. Let's get Sherlock some breakfast, yeah?" She looked up at him and seemed to understand his concern. As they walked, Bluebell stayed instinctively between John and any person they happened upon.

They were near the halfway point when John spotted a movement in the reflection of a window across the street. Bluebell's ears perked up. They were definitely being followed. He ducked into the coffee shop. Bluebell hesitated, which John found worrisome, but followed him obediently.

"Hey, you can't bring that dog in here!" John recognized the manager, a kid really, just out of uni, making his way around the counter, trying to look menacing. John pulled his hood back. "Oh. John, sorry... is this, uhm," he nodded toward Bluebell, "a case?"

"Kind of." He reached down and displayed the tag designating her as a service dog.

"God. Sorry. Sorry... A lot of stress, huh?" The young man, a decent enough bloke, looked John up and down, then shook his head. "Heard about that mess at, what was it... Baskerville? Just terrib-"

"What?" John snapped to full attention. "How? That's not public knowledge."

The manager shrugged. "Someone must have forgotten to tell the online gossip sites then, 'cause you and Sherlock, and that detective are posted up all over."

"God damn it." John pulled out his mobile as he stormed to the counter. He placed his order for three coffees, the bacon rolls and a few other pastries, and moved to stand at the end of the counter. The new barista was being obviously aloof. He couldn't quite put his finger on it...

 

_How close are you to Baker Street. Could use some assistance. JW_

_Just pulled up. Got some news. Where are you? GL_

_Coffee shop. Two blocks. Leave the car. JW_

_On my way. GL_

 

He pulled up a well known gossip site on his mobile and groaned.

 

_Baskerville's made it into the gossip rags. JW_

_Someone tried to get photos earlier. In custody. MH_

_Seems a conversation with a media mogul is in order. MH_

 

John took the lid off one of the cups and started to add sugar. Another barista set a cup on the counter near his order and shouted "soy latte?" A man in an expensive suit rushed over. Distracted by the heated conversation he was having via bluetooth, he grabbed one of John's coffees, turned and took a large swallow.

"Hey! I think you..." John tried to get his attention, but the other man was so absorbed, he didn't realize his error until his second swallow.

The man in the suit spun around to berate the barista, but only managed to drop his cup. He turned to John with panic in his eyes; his pupils were dilated, and his breathing was erratic. John shouted for someone to call 999 before the man even hit the floor.

John's very nature was to dive to the floor and assist, but... He looked up to see the new barista glance his direction.

"Mary is it?"

She growled, grabbed the cup John had been stirring, and flung it at him. He managed to  cover his face so his forearms took the brunt of the hot liquid. At some point he'd dropped Bluebell's lead, and when Mary took off through the back of the store, it was with a very protective, very angry dog at her heels.

"John!" Greg was barely in the door and John pointed in the direction of the alleyway. With a nod, Greg took off at a dead run and skidded around the corner. He was greeted by a petite blonde woman, running as hard as she could and shouting obscenities at a very pissed off Bluebell. When she spotted Greg she charged at him, and he knew instantly she was going for a weapon.

Before he could even think about it, Greg ran at her and brought her down with one well placed blow. With another shout she kicked out at Greg, though didn't manage to knock him off his feet. She jumped up to swing at him and Bluebell latched onto her ankle. She tried to kick the dog away, and when that didn't work she went for her gun again.

"Oh hell no." Greg pulled his gun on her. "Just stop."

"Need some assistance, Detective?" A familiar voice called from the mouth of the alley. Greg didn't dare take his eyes off Mary.

"Depends on who's offering."

"Mrs. Turner, at your service."

"Bloody hell." Greg snorted as Angelo sauntered around him, took a bow with a flourish, and then set about cuffing and disarming Mary. "Does Sherlock know?"

"Doubtful." Angelo scratched Bluebell's ears and she released her hold on Mary. "Brilliant dog."

"Bluebell. She found John." Greg holstered his weapon and glanced at the street where the ambulance was just pulling up.

"Hmm. Perfect fit." Angelo shoved Mary forward. "Speaking of..."

"Shit." Greg jogged around the corner and nearly bumped into John, who was giving the medics instructions.

"I've already called ahead. The team will be waiting with the antidote. You need to hurry." John face was grim as he turned to Greg. "Belladonna. She..." He noticed Angelo with Mary in handcuffs and froze.

"John, meet Mrs. Turner."

John blew out a slow breath. "Of course. Does Sherl-"

"Nope." Greg chuckled.

"You were following me?" John looked pointedly at Angelo.

"No, that was..." He inclined his head to someone behind John.

"Hey John. Didn't mean to worry you." A man carrying a tray with the tainted coffee cups stepped out around him, followed closely by another man carrying the bag of pastries John had ordered. "Sorry, this is all evidence now."

"Matt? Nate? No. No. So 'the married ones' it's actually code." John ran his hand down his face.

"Sorry, mate. We had orders. Constant surveillance." Matt smiled apologetically.

John could see it now. Neither man was ever without an earpiece. He'd always assumed bluetooth. He could make out the outlines of weapons now that he was looking, and while he could tell both men were very fit, he suspected some of their muscle tone was actually Kevlar.

"I don't even... I. Uhm. Do you have names? Who are you?" John looked to Greg, who shrugged in return.

"Let's just stick with what you know for now, yeah?" Nate offered. "We can talk later, but right now, we're gonna take Ms. Morstan into custody." John nodded and watched the men who'd been his neighbors for, he paused to think...

"Almost nine years. Nine. Since day one." John crossed his arms over his chest and hissed in pain. "Damn." He dropped his arms to his sides.

"You okay?" Angelo searched his face, and then he looked alarmed as he noticed the coffee on John's sleeves and across his chest. "We need to get you..."

"It's not bad, just sore. She threw it at me before she ran." John turned and started walking home, Bluebell right at his side. Greg and Angelo exchanged looks and caught up to him.

"John, if that coffee..." Greg stepped in front of him.

"If it was going to effect me, it would have already. I'll treat the burns, which aren't that bad, at home." He brushed past Greg and kept walking.

"Martha's not gonna be happy," Angelo mumbled to Greg.

"Martha? I'm more worried about his royal..."

The front door to 221 flew open just as John reached it. "John. Where..." Sherlock pulled John inside, but froze when he spotted Greg and... "A-angelo? What..."

"Meet Mrs. Turner," John pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Wha-"

"Everyone in my flat now." Mrs. Hudson demanded. "What the hell happened over there?" She jabbed Angelo in the chest with her index finger.

"It was Mary." He huffed. "John recognized her. She tried to run, Greg and Bluebell," he chuckled, "they cornered her. Nate and Matt took her in."

"Did she fight, or did she let you subdue her?" Mrs. Hudson stared at Greg, assessing everything.

"She... yeah. It was way too easy." He swallowed hard. "Shit."

"Quite. She wanted to get back in. Why?" Mrs. Hudson nodded at Angelo, who sent a hasty text, she then turned on John. "Anything to add?"

"She poisoned our coffee. Someone else got it instead. I- Molly was waiting with the antidote. He should make it." John exhaled deeply. "And, uhm..." Sherlock reached for John’s arm, to pull him close, and John winced."Got any burn cream? She threw a cup at me."

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both stared at him in varying degrees of rage. Greg and Angelo shared another concerned look and opted to keep their distance as John shrugged out of his coat, and pulled the hoodie and his t-shirt over his head. John was right, the burns weren't bad, just red and angry looking, but they were bigger than even he thought. The redness extended over the outside of both forearms from the wrists to the elbows, a wide swath across his upper chest, and small area on the left side of his neck were also irritated.

"John," Sherlock voice cracked, and crowded him, not sure where it was safe to put his hands. He settled for one hand protectively on the right side of John's neck.

"You're sure it's just burns, not the poison?" Mrs. Hudson examined his left arm and then his chest. She frowned.

"I feel fine." John shrugged.

"Even so." She ushered him to the kitchen and had him sit at the table. She prepared a gentle, cool wash in a large bowl and handed it to Sherlock with a soft cloth. "Gently." Sherlock nodded, knelt in front of John, and gingerly, as if he would break, began cleaning John's burns. Greg watched in awe, and Angelo had a very knowing, very smug look on his face. Mrs. Hudson handed them both tea and shooed them to her sitting room. She pulled out a med kit even more impressive than John's.

"Baskerville made it to the gossip sites and someone took pictures of Myc and Anthea." John leaned into Sherlock's gentle touch and sighed. Bluebell rested her chin on John's knee with a soft whimper and watched Sherlock's every move.

"Magnussen," Sherlock frowned. "How is he connected?"

"How is he not?" Mrs. Hudson's tone was full of venom. She pounded her fist on the worktop. "Here." She handed John three tablets.

"Two paracetamol and what, exactly?" John eyed the pills.

"Physostigmine."

Sherlock jerked his head up. "What? Isn't that..."

"Antidote... We don't know what variant she used. You'll not risk it. Take the damn pills." Mrs. Hudson forced a glass of water into John’s hand. "Drink the whole thing." John grumbled about side effects as he swallowed the pills. "There's a good lad. Now let me get you some breakfast. Sherlock, use this cream."

"I took your bloody pill, now you owe me... us... some explanations."


	9. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least to consider the possibility that we have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae on our hands." - Douglas Adams

Andy took a deep breath and looked into Donovan's eyes, then nodded and turned to walk into the interrogation room.

"Al -"

"Yeah. I know. Me too."

 

Mary Morstan was at ease, and but for a slight smirk, she showed no emotion when Andy sat across from her.

"This won't be recorded, 'Mary.' " Andy began.

"You have nothing to charge me with. I want my solicitor." She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"I'm sure you do," Andy opened the inch thick file in front of him and smiled pleasantly enough at her. "Agatha."

 

Mrs. Hudson looked around the room, at the men she considered her sons; at Angelo, who she would die for and he had put his life on the line for her more times than she could remember; and at the Detective Inspector who was going to need one or two stiff drinks when all was said and done, she took a deep breath and began.

"My name isn't important...best that none of you know it anyway. As far as you are concerned I am Martha Hudson, a simple biscuit baking landlady...none of what I am about to tell you will ever be repeated." She looked round for nods of agreement and got them.

"Very well. We shall begin with the recruitment of Sebastian Moran near the turn of this century. He was the very best, brilliant, combat skills unparalleled and charming as hell, but as we later discovered, much too late, unfortunately, that he was completely without a conscience..."

 

"Myc." Anthea began. "Please calm down, you cannot go into Magnussen's office with a hot head. I am just as angry if not more so about the flagrant breach of at the very least...manners..."

Mycroft stopped pacing furiously and rubbed his face, then repeated what she had just said to him. "..flagrant breach of...manners. God. I love you, Violet." He bent over her and kissed her hand as if she were made of glass that would shatter if he touched her too hard.

"Myc-"

"Sorry. I -"

"I know. I do, believe me, but please, try to remember who you are. You are Mycroft Holmes. Don't forget what that means, love. You are calm, solid, brilliant as hell, and, yes, the love of my life. You are England, love. Be that, and he won't be able to get to you. You are untouchable."

 

Mary's mask dropped and the cold, brilliant assassin lost her nerve and any shred of composure. "My name is Mm-mary Morstan. I am a nurse at St. Bart's. I was simply getting a coffee, when someone grabbed at me. In f-f-ffact I want to press charges against that man -"

"Your name is Agatha Grace Reynolds - Allen. You were born in Atlanta, Georgia, April 1, 1989 to Ruth and Steven Reynolds. When you were 12, they die in a fire, and you disappear, presumed dead. Case never solved." Andy placed several photos in front of her. "But this was your first double, wasn't it, Agatha? Or was it a triple homicide? There was a third body, that matched your age and body type found in what remained of your bed. Did you at least put them out of their misery first, or did you stay long enough to hear them scr-"

"He was an evil, horrible man, and she was worse...they deserved it!" She covered her mouth when she realised what she had admitted to, then took a deep breath and managed to regain her focus. "My name is Mary Morstan ...."

 

Sir. She is losing it. 

You know what to do.

Sir. Yessir. 

 

Sebastian Moran sighed as he pocketed his phone. It really was too bad. Mary had been useful, and yes, she enjoyed sharing his 'hobbies'...he would miss her.

 

Mycroft approached the camera in front of Magnussen's office, knowing Magnussen would be expecting him. He had stopped at home, showered, shaved and dressed in his sternest bespoke suit, the one he wore when he was forced to meet with Putin. He glanced up and smirked, then nodded as the door opened for him. He whistled to himself as he twirled his favourite umbrella, not a hair out of place.

"Mycroft Holmes." Magnussen got up from his chair, and walked forward, offering his hand.

"Charles. You have been a very naughty fellow." Magnussen shrugged, casually shoving the blatantly disregarded hand into his pocket.

"I'm only giving my readers what they want..."

"Where is Moran?"

"Direct as always, Myc. I thought he was dead? At least that is what my sources seem to suggest."

"We both know better, don't we, Charles?"


	10. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof is to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools."_ -Douglas Adams

_"Colonel Moran, sir, what happened? Where is..."_

_"Don't call me that." Moran turned on the young tech specialist. "I'm not a Colonel, they took that from me, remember? I'm just a fucking errand boy."_

_"S - sorry sir... But Holmes? Where's Holmes, and Hodges and the others?"_

_"Dead."_

_"No." Anthea stood from her console. "His vital sensors are still..."_

_"They're all dead. Just like we will be if we don't move." Moran's voice was low and threatening._

_"Then why didn't you call for help retrieving the bodies?" She was in his face._

_"Back. Up." He growled._

_"You don't give me orders. Holmes does. I haven't seen a body, so he's still mission commander."_

_Moran backhanded her. "Learn your place!"_

_Anthea stood her ground. "You know protocol. No one can know we were here. We have to get them."_

_"There is nothing left to recover. We move out in thirty." Moran stormed out._

_Anthea sat with shaking hands and opened the secure communication line. The one only two other people knew about._

_\- - - [begin transmission] - - -_

_H - Moran report fabricated. Request permission for rescue and recovery. - A_

_A - Confirmation? - H_

_H - Active vital sensors on both agents. Translator and comm spec dead. Radio silence. - A_

_A - Not enough. - H_

_H - Holmes and I have our own signal. - A_

_A - And? - H_

_H - Visual confirmation five minutes ago. - A_

_A - What do you need? - H_

_H - Twenty minutes and my kit. - A_

_A - Go. - H_

_\- - - [end transmission] - - -_

 

"...at first, your brother was seduced by Moran's smoothness, his charm and his ability to spin a yarn..." John was listening to Mrs. Hudson's voice, but was focused on the man who sat next to him; he felt Sherlock shiver then sigh as he let go of John's hand, got up, walked out of the flat and up the stairs back to their flat.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, it's all a bit much for him to take in, his life is being rewritten as you speak. He needs to sleep..."

"...as do you. I am sorry, John, please, I never -"

John nodded, then smiled sadly at her. "I know, he knows...I need to be with him." He left the flat and followed his friend upstairs.

 

* * *

 

"You know what happens now, right?"

Mary rolled to lay on the narrow bench so her back was to the horrid guard taunting her. "I know my rights. I don't have to say anything else until my solicitor gets here."

"Oh honey. You already talked. You gave it up like a little bitch, and boss man knows. He already knows. No one's coming for you. Least of all him; he's got no time for weak little princesses who can't do their jobs."

"We had a deal." Mary sat up and narrowed her eyes at the guard. The foul woman laughed in her face. "Enough!" She screamed as she jumped from the bench and clawed at the woman's face.

The guard grabbed Mary by the hair with one hand and pulled out a taser with the other.

"That's not allowed!"

"Not my problem. I don't even work here." The guard laughed, released Mary's hair and tased her. "Boss says you got two options." She stood and looked down at Mary writhing and groaning on the floor. "Make it right on your own. Or, wait it out. We both know you won't survive either. Might as well get it over with."

The guard turned to leave, picked up the water bottle from the tray she'd carried in with her, and shook it so the contents sloshed. "Drink up." She tossed the bottle so it hit Mary in the chest and rolled across the floor.

"Go to hell." Mary rasped.

"You first."

 

* * *

 

_Mary is dead. - SD_

_What? How...never mind - I'll be there as soon as I can - let no one leave the building - GL_

Andy paced the interrogation room, trying to work out how it had been done. Who had gotten to her?

"Andy?" Donovan tried to break through his meditation on how he had fucked up once again.

"...if only I had kept her in here, made her sweat a little more..."

"Andy - please?"

"I should have known someth-"

"AL!!"

"Donovan? Damn. Oh, God, you need to be at home...I can't believe..." He sat down hard and she stood behind him, draping her arms around him.

"Shh...close your eyes and think, love...breathe for me..."

Sally took slow deliberate breaths against his back. Andy closed his eyes and tried to follow along. He did. But all he could think about was that he'd cost them their chance at Moran. He'd lost their lead, and now these, his new friends, these people he respected, and this woman he somehow already loved, were in imminent danger, simply because he'd failed. He'd let his inexperience and his sentimentality get the better of him. What good did it do for him to recognize her, if she'd still been able to get close enough to put poisoned coffee in John's hand? And...

"Shit." Andy jumped up. "Call, uhm... what's his name. Forensics..."

Sally stumbled back in surprise. "Anderson?"

"Yes. Was there a water bottle or a mug or something in the cell? It's the goddamn belladonna. It has to be."

While Sally made the call, Andy pulled up the security footage.

"They didn't find a bottle, but he's going to run all the blood test." Sally sat down next to him.

"Someone tampered with the cameras. The feed for the cells is black." Andy rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn it."

"Wait, look..." Sally backed up another segment of video. "There's only one guard carrying a tray. There."

"Recognize her?"

"Never seen her before in my life."

Andy fast forwarded the footage, and the same guard walked back past. "Not too bright, is she? Wha... hold on. Look at that..." He enhanced the image. Her face was bleeding. They shared a look. "We're on lock-down, she's not getting out."

"Go get her, love."

 

_Mary was poisoned. Andy found Moran's messenger. SD_

_Heading up now. GL_

_Good job, you two. GL_

 

* * *

 

"Ah, excuse me. Urgent matters of international importance. I'm sure you understand." Mycroft excused himself and pulled his mobile from his pocket.

"But of course," Magnussen nodded, an air of feigned magnanimity on his face. His own mobile buzzed a moment later. "We are but men of the world, are we not?"

Mycroft hummed, but did not look up.

 

_Mary's dead. Poisoned. We've got Moran's messenger. GL_

_Get a location. MH_

_Working on it. GL_

 

Mycroft looked up at Magnussen, who was watching him intently. He showed no remorse or embarrassment, only smug satisfaction. "So sorry. Won't be but another moment."

Magnussen waved him off. "What's a few minutes between friends?"

 

_Protocol 4-2. MH_

_Package received._

_Morstan is dead. Moran on the move. With CAM now. MH_

_Understood. Intel secure._

 

Mycroft continued staring at his mobile. When he heard Magnussen's mobile buzz once more he glanced up only enough to see the other man narrow his eyes. He recovered himself quickly and Mycroft looked up fully with an icy smile. "Sometimes I wonder if these things won't be the death of us." He waved his mobile then dropped it in his pocket.

Magnussen blinked and smiled a venomous smile. "Interesting."

"Do share."

"Your priorities have... shifted. The job use to be first, followed by your deadbeat brother. But that's not the truth any more. Could it be the Iceman has thawed? Has he discovered a heart under all those frozen layers?"

"What is it you hope to get out of this? Why Moran? Why now?"

"Ah, ah, ah." Magnussen stood from his seat behind the huge obscenely ornate desk, walked to stand in front of Mycroft, and leaned back on the edge. "How long have you known me, Myc? Is it okay if I call you Myc? I rather like the sound of it. It's... cute."

Mycroft gritted his teeth but inclined his head. "If you must."

"See? This isn't going to be hard at all." Magnussen sneered. "Information. It's all I ever wanted. You had your opportunity, when you and your little assistant outed Moran, I offered to let you in on the ground floor. You give me information, and I keep the monsters away. Well, it's been fifteen years. Neither one of us is getting any younger. I'm tired of waiting, and Moran's thirst for blood has grown insatiable."

Mycroft paled, but maintained his composure. "I'll not ask again. What is it you want?"

"You." Magnussen leaned forward so his lips were touching Mycroft's ear, and whispered, "Myc, I want you."

"Call it off." Mycroft remained rigid. "I give you anything you want, and you call off your dogs."

Magnussen laughed. "Oh, he's not mine! And now he's tasted blood, he'll not be stopped. That lovely little number who took that bullet for you, your failure of a brother and his little pet, all of them. He's going to burn the world down." Magnussen snapped his fingers. "But I will accept your offer. Please don't try to fight. It's so beneath us both."

Two men in suits entered the office, dragged Mycroft from his seat and manhandled him to the door. "We're going to have so much fun!" Magnussen called after them.

"You have no idea." Mycroft mumbled to himself.

 

_What are you doing Moran? Assassinations were not part of the plan, we were simply going to destroy his precious reputation and let him... - CAM_

_Plans have changed. - SM_

_I heard about Mary. I am sorry. She was very talented - CAM_

_Moran? - CAM_

_I've had to make adjustments, and it is disagreeable - CAM_

_Back off a bit - CAM_

 

* * *

 

Moran turned off his phone, stood at the window and sneered. One would think, after everything, they'd have invested in some decent curtains. He could see John through his sights, just like he had that afternoon, so many years ago. He could just take the shot, destroy one Holmes with a single bullet, then let Mycroft - NO. There was a plan. Mary had set them off the timetable, but... Goddamn it Mary. She couldn't just stick to the damn script just one damn time. Shit. He was tired of losing. Tired of having every fucking thing taken from him. Not anymore. Focus. Just focus. Let Holmes come to him.

 

* * *

 

Holmes had finally fallen asleep, bits of the puzzle had been solved, they knew the who, and the why, now, they just had to determine the where and the when. There was something that always tugged at Watson's heartstrings when he watched his friend at rest -

 

"JOHN! Where are you? I can't - John? Where? I've lost him again."

John closed his laptop, put it aside and took Sherlock into his arms. "I'm here, right here, καρδιά μου." He felt Sherlock fight against him, until he flattened Sherlock's hand against his chest, so he could feel his heartbeat. Then Sherlock sat up as if he had been struck.

"John. God - we have to finish this...please, we need to end this soon."


	11. Nearing a Conclusion....possibly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before--and thus was the Empire forged.”  
> -Douglas Adams

John looked at the time and realised it had been ages since they had eaten real food, none of them had eaten Mrs. Hudson's scones...for obvious reasons, and Sherlock needed a change of scenery, besides.

"Get dressed. Aubergine shirt. Bespoke trousers. Angelo's in twenty minutes."

"John. How can you think of - I'm sorry, you're right, and we need to thank Angelo..or whatever his name is..."

 

"So, Charles..." Mycroft closed his eyes as the ziptie cut deeper into his wrists.

"Myc, so nice we have this time to chat, not too tight are they?"

"Nice and snug. What was it exactly that made you such a dickhead? We always wondered where your atrocious manners came from -"

Magnussen nodded sharply and his two thugs disappeared. "I don't normally like to get my hands dirty, I am not a criminal, as you know, just a -"

" 'simple' businessman?" Mycroft grinned at him as Magnussen backhanded him hard across the face.

"Is that the best you've got, 'Chuck?' That's what we called you, you know..." 

"I'm going to enjoy this - you arrogant posh son of a bitch."

 

He's not back yet - A

Dammit, he's fallen on his sword again - MH

Hudders, please, I can't lose him, not now. - A

Myc's missing - suspect CAM - try his office - MH

 

“ 'We demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty!' ” Myc spat out after yet another vicious punch to his stomach.

"What?!!" Magnussen spluttered. "What the hell does that even mean?"

 

Donovan shook her head as she saw the text from Mrs. Hudson and muttered, "damn Holmes brothers, always think they have to save the world."

Andy rolled over and nuzzled her neck, "huhhh?"

"We have to go rescue Mycroft."

"What is this 'we' garbage, you need to..." Andy sighed and already at this point in their relationship, knew better than to suggest she stay put. "Never mind. 'Lock and load, baby. Lock and load.' "

"That's ridiculous...but sexy as hell, Al...later..."

"Yeah, later, love. You do know I'm hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with you -"

Donovan kissed him until they were both breathless. "Yeah, kinda got that feeling, you know I - "

"Uh-huh. Let's go and catch us some some bad guys..."

 

" 'My favourite piece of information is that Branwell Brontë, brother of Emily and Charlotte, died standing up leaning against a mantle piece, in order to prove it could be done....' "

"Hell, why won't you just shut the hell up, Holmes?" Magnussen smacked Mycroft again. He merely shrugged.

" 'This is not quite true, in fact. My absolute favourite piece of information is the fact that young sloths are so inept that they frequently grab their own arms and legs instead of tree limbs, and fall out of trees...' "

There wasn't a kick, slap or punch this time, and Mycroft knew his situation had become altogether almost impossibly worse.

Moran grabbed Mycroft by the hair and pulled back viciously."Magnussen was a great fool, Mycroft, easily disposed of. You, more than most, know I am not a great fool or so easily defeated. I do appreciate your choice of author, however, you always did have a rather delicious sense of humour, though few understood it as I did."

"Sebastian, so lovely to almost see you again," Mycroft squinted through bruised and swollen eyes. "It's been too long -"

"Night, night, Myc."

 

"So, 'Angelo,' when did you and 'Mrs. Hudson' meet?" John asked between bites of lasagne.

"Back at University, she was stunning, redhead, just beautiful..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked down as he felt his phone vibrate.

 

Roof. One hour. If you want to see your brother in one piece again, leave your pet at home. - SM


	12. We're Doing This Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Perhaps I’m old and tired, but I think that the chances of finding out what’s actually going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say, 'Hang the sense of it,' and keep yourself busy.'"_ -Douglas Adams

John watched Sherlock's face change minutely to something hard and guarded. He still wore a soft expression, but it was pinched and insincere. A mask, reminiscent of those early days, back when they were unsure of one another and they were still working to find their footing. The last time John saw those expressive eyes look that dull, that shielded, that... mechanical... he'd actually called Sherlock a machine. He'd stormed away, and left Sherlock alone to face...

 _Oh hell no._ Sherlock fancied himself a brilliant actor, and he was, but John had learned a few things over the years. He disguised the deep, grounding breath he took as a yawn then shoved another bite in his mouth. Keeping his face turned toward Angelo and his frankly indecent ramblings about Mrs. Hudson's university exploits, John watched Sherlock fidgeting in his peripheral vision.

"Sorry, Angelo," John yawned again. "Not that this isn't fascinating, and a bit alarming to be honest, but I think I'm ready to head back. Long day and all..." John rolled his shoulders, and then winced. He absently rubbed his hand over the burn on his chest. Sherlock looked up with genuine concern. _Rein it in some._ "Just a little sore." John flashed a lopsided smile at Sherlock.

"Yes, well. We should go. I need to get John home to rest. Thank you, Angelo, brilliant as usual..."

"What? No tiramisu?" Angelo looked genuinely put out.

"Maybe a box?" John glanced at Sherlock who slumped back in his chair. _Agitated and in a hurry. Very much not good._ Satisfied with the compromise Angelo hurried off to the kitchen. "So..." John deliberately looked at Sherlock's mobile. "News?" Just then another message buzzed, and Sherlock snatched it up; he schooled his expression into something resembling relief, though John wasn't fooled.

"It's Greg. Mary's dead. One of Moran's foot soldiers got the belladonna to her. They have the delivery person in custody." Sherlock flashed the face of his mobile in John's direction, but turned it back toward himself too quickly to actually be seen.

"Bloody hell." John huffed, as he watched Sherlock type out a response. _Bastard thinks he's gonna get away with this shit._

Angelo returned then with the dessert and grinned at John. "Sending extra, since I know how this one is." He nodded his head toward Sherlock, who jumped up and pulled his coat on with a flourish. He tossed John his jacket, took the box from Angelo, and grabbed at the arm that John actually had managed to slip into his sleeve.

"Ow. Damn it, Sherlock. I just said it was still sore. Slow down." John grumbled in earnest.

Looking stricken, Sherlock took a step back. "God, John. I'm sorry. Shit. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes. "C'mon." He nodded his thanks to Angelo, then took Sherlock's hand. The concern on Sherlock's face eased back into the guarded mask, and John could see his mind running at full speed as he pushed through the front door with a little too much force.

"Oi!" A smallish person, dressed in ragged layers ducked away from the door, and quickly righted herself. She shoved filthy fringe back from her eyes, glared at Sherlock as he passed her, and turned to John. "Spare some change, guv?" Pulling his hand free from Sherlock's, John paused and studied the girl's face.

"Yeah, uhm, yeah. Hey, Sherlock?" John dug through his pockets and the only spare cash he was willing to part with was a few coins. "Hey, Sherlock?"

"What John?" Sherlock huffed as he turned back from the cab he'd just summoned.

John inclined his head toward the girl. "Might be important."

"Wait." Sherlock commanded the driver, then turned and took in the scene. "Shit. What now?" The girl blinked up at him and held her cup out. Sherlock stuffed a few bills in the cup with a frustrated sigh, and discreetly pulled out a dirty scrap of paper.

"Ta. Wiggins sez hullo." She pulled a cap down over her head and ducked down a side street.

"Get in the car." Sherlock nudged John forward as he studied the scrap. "Damn it. Moran's got a gun on Baker Street." He rattled off an address to the cabbie.

"So we're going to Molly's? Shouldn't we go warn..."

"No!" Sherlock closed his eyes and released a slow breath. "No. We go to Molly's. She needs to check your burns. I don't like that you're still in pain." He pulled out his mobile.

 

_Homeless network spotted possible sniper on Baker Street. SH_

_I'm not there. I'll let the married ones know. H_

_With A. Myc has not checked in. H_

_You boys be careful. H_

 

Sherlock checked the time, then shoved the mobile in his pocket. "Hurry," he growled at the driver, and flinched and pulled away when John reached for his hand. They rode the rest of the way in silence, Sherlock with his fingers steepled under his chin, John with his hands shoved in his pockets. When they arrived, Sherlock paid the fare and dragged John from the car. He didn't wait to knock or ring the bell, but simply produced a key and let them in to Molly's place.

"God dammit, Sherlock. What the hell?" Molly jumped up from her spot on the couch, knocking her book and Toby to the floor.

"Can't go home, sniper. John has burns, need your kit." Sherlock flapped his hand noncommittally, and headed directly for Molly's loo. John pursed his lips and shrugged at Molly as he closed and locked the door.

"Uhm..." He glanced at Toby, who had spotted his favorite human and was heading straight for him.

"Right." Molly scooped the cat up, and led John through to the kitchen, stopping to deposit Toby in her room along the way. "Greg told me about the coffee. God, what a crazy bitch." She washed her hands and turned on the kettle.

"At least we didn't drink it." John shrugged out of his coat. He knew better than to even think about arguing with Sherlock when he was scheming, so he pulled his jumper and soft t-shirt off and sat obediently on the chair Molly pointed to.

Molly gasped. "Shit. Sorry John."

"They're better than they were, actually."

"He's in pain." Sherlock dropped Molly's kit on the table, and dug through it without a care for organization. He tossed a tube of cream to Molly, and continued digging. John watched him warily as Sherlock turned suddenly from the kit and set his attention to making a cup of tea.

"They just look like burns, not any kind of reaction to the belladonna." Molly ignored Sherlock's actions and started her examination. "Any symptoms?"

"Nothing that can't also be attributed to stress and fatigue." John shrugged, and Molly's smile was sad. Sherlock grumbled.

"This is no laughing matter."

"No one is laughing, Sherlock." John narrowed his eyes. "What's got you so on edge?" _Please, Sherlock, for the love of god... just tell me the truth. I'm giving you a chance to tell me the truth. I trust you._

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped. He slammed the cup of tea down in front of John, spilling some on the table. "Tea. You like tea." He watched John expectantly.

"Uhm, thanks." Picking up the mug, John sniffed and took a tiny sip. It was sweetened. _Son of a bitch drugged my tea. Damn it, Sherlock. We were past all this. Everything together, wasn't it? Didn't we promise?_ John blinked a few times and pretended to take another sip. "Too hot," he lied. He couldn't bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Please, John. Just... just drink the tea. Please?" At the desperation in Sherlock's tone John was nearly sick.

 _How dare he try to guilt me? He's a bleeding idiot if he thinks I'm letting him do this on his own._ "All right, Sherlock," there was no disguising the sorrow in his voice. He let Molly apply the burn cream to his arms, hoping it would buy him a few minutes to think.

Sherlock's phone ringing startled them all. He dug it out of his pocket, glared at it and stormed to the sitting room.

"Let me put this away, and I'll get you some paracetamol, yeah? Molly patted John’s shoulder.

"Ta." John waited for Molly to disappear and poured most of the tea into the sink. He sat with the cup to his lips, and waited.

"Whoever was at Baker Street is gone now..." Sherlock brushed past John and came to a sudden stop before turning suddenly. "Y-you drank it..."

"You made it for me, it's not like you'd try to drug me or something. Not now." John knew his smile was insincere, but he tried meeting Sherlock's gaze anyway. Sherlock closed his eyes, turned his head and swallowed hard. _The point of no return._ "I trust you, Sherlock." John's shot hit his mark, and Sherlock's exhalation sounded as if he'd been punched.

They sat in silence a few moments before Molly returned. "You two okay?" Sherlock merely ignored her pulling out his mobile and occasionally glancing at John. John just sighed.

He wondered what, and how much of it, Sherlock had put in the tea. He clearly expected it to start working quickly. _Show time._ John set the mug aside, rubbed his eyes and yawned. "God, just sitting around is making me..." Another yawn for good measure.

Molly chuckled and handed him his shirts. "You two run yourselves ragged."

John took his time separating the t-shirt from the jumper. He pulled the t-shirt on and mumbled a few soft curses because it was inside out. He decided to leave it. When Molly giggled, he glanced up to see Sherlock watching him, his face a devastating combination of adoration and regret. Then he shrugged and moved to the jumper -- the real test. John got himself tangled in the sleeves for just a moment, and acquiesced when Sherlock offered to assist him.

The awful hollow ache filled his chest as he gave Sherlock a lazy smile and patted his face. "καρδιά μου," John bumbled the pronunciation, and Sherlock frowned. When John picked up the mug to finish the tea, Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. _Just put him out of his misery, Watson._ Letting his head list to the side, John brought the mug to his mouth, then dropped it, and went a little more limp than he thought was strictly necessary.

"What the hell... Sherlock?" Molly dropped to her knees in front of John and took his pulse. John focused on staying calm, willing his heart to stop racing. If Molly bought it, he hoped Sherlock would too. "You bastard, what did you do?" Molly jumped up, spun around and smack Sherlock across the face.

"We're doing this again? You're going to make me lie to him again?

"It can't be helped." Sherlock looped John's arm over his shoulders and pulled him up from the chair. "Moran has Mycroft. I have... twenty minutes to get there, or he's going to kill him. I- I have to go alone. He said if John comes..."

"Where?" Molly groaned. "Please don't say..."

"Oh, where else?" Sherlock ground out.

 _Shit. God damn. No._ John put a little more effort into making Sherlock's task as difficult as possible, dragging his feet and slipping out of his grasp.

"Oh for godsake." With a growl, Sherlock picked John up. "Guest room, Molly."

"I hate this. I just want you to know how much I hate this. And I hate you right now too." Molly pulled the duvet back.

"Noted," Sherlock grunted as he carefully positioned John on the bed.

"I can't believe, after Greece, and after Baskerville..."

"What?" Sherlock whispered and turned on Molly. "You can't believe what, Molly? That I would do anything... ANYTHING to keep John Watson breathing."

"Including breaking his heart?"

"If that's what it takes."

Molly glared at him, then turned and left the room.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. It has to be this way. You... you'll understand. Some day, you'll understand. And maybe you'll even forgive me eventually." Sherlock pulled the duvet up to John's chin, then cupped his cheek. "I love you, John. καρδιά μου. Forever and for always." He leaned down and brushed a light kiss on John's forehead. Before he could reconsider, Sherlock walked out and pulled the door shut.

John lay very still, and listened to Sherlock and Molly exchange muffled, heated words. When he heard the front door open, he slipped out of the bed. _Damn, my coat... My mobile._ He was mildly surprised that Sherlock had left him his gun. With a sigh, John carefully slid the window open and silently rejoiced that Molly's flat was on the ground floor.

He dropped to the ground, and looked around to get his bearings. He watched from the corner of the building as Sherlock climbed into a cab. "Shit." John darted out to the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

"Where to, mate?"

"Saint Bart's."

 

Molly scooped Toby up and sniffled. "C'mon, Toby, let's check on our friend." She shouldered the door open. "John?... Fuck."


	13. Deja Vu...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let the past hold on to itself and let the present move forward into the future.” -Douglas Adams

"Wait, Donovan, please, just let me go first at least?"

"Okay, okay." Donovan held her breath as she let Andy press forward into Magnussen's office.

"NO. No...damn it!" Andy groaned as he checked Magnussen for a pulse, though it was clear there wouldn't be one. "Donovan - you'll need to get Greg over here."

"They were here." More a statement than a question as Sally closed her eyes and sighed.

 

CAM's dead, no sign of Myc or Moran. - AG

Bart's. The roof. - MH

No. You can't mean? - AG

History is going try to repeat itself. Hurry. - MH

 

"Wakey, wakey, Myc." Moran flicked Mycroft's face until he heard Mycroft groan. "I want you to watch, no, I need you to watch your brother die. You will finally know what it feels like to lose everything... no...I know about Anthea, I always knew...you two were just so... proper... it set my teeth on edge. No, you risked everything time and time again to save your brother, and now that he finally knows what it's like to be happy, it will be even worse for you to watch him die. For real. Just like I had to watch Jim. I saw the whole thing. Sherlock had lost, fair and square, he was finished. But Jim, Jim, he had left a loophole, and Sherlock saw it. Jim, above all things, was a perfectionist, his beautiful story had one flaw, and Sherlock picked and picked at that one thread... until... he may as well have pulled the trigger for him."

Mycroft tried his hands, still ziptied. Nothing he could do but wait.

 

Greg sighed as his phone started pinging as he finally put his key into the lock after way too long a day. "Damn it. Molly?"

"Greg, we have to get to Bart's. Now."

"No. You mean..."

"Yeah, the arsehole...dammit, Sherlock is going to try do it on his own AGAIN.

"John? Where's John -"

"On his way to try to stop him...AGAIN."

"I'll be back as soon as I can - stay?"

Molly growled, "The hell I am, I can help if - "

"Come on, then, love."

 

Traffic was held up two blocks from Bart's, too slow...too fucking slow. John groaned in frustration, threw a wad of cash at the cabbie, and launched himself out of the cab.

"Please, Sherlock, I'm coming, hold on, I'm right behind you. You promised me. Together, together or nothing. Please, just wait -"

 

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and looked up, imagining John standing here, all those years ago, helpless as he watched. At least he won't have to watch this time. "I'm sorry, καρδιά μου, but I need to, I have to do this. I owe Myc, he gave us the chance, the chance to be happy, and for a week, a whole glorious week, we were. Most people don't even get that. Forgive me." He checked for his weapon, then nodded to himself and made his way into the building.

"Goddamnit, Sherlock..." John watched as Sherlock disappeared through the doors.

"John!!" Greg pulled up in front of him, and got out of the car. "Where is he?"

"He just walked in - he's, he's -"

"The roof. I know. Is there a back way? Can we -"

"Yes. Yes! There is another way, come on, we have to hurry, hopefully Sherlock can keep him talking."

"If anyone can, it would be him." Greg tried to lighten the mood, but then saw a grimace flash across John's features and knew how difficult this was for his friend. "I'm sorry, John. Let's -"

"Yeah, we have to stop him this time, Greg -"

"We will, mate, we will."

 

Andy and Donovan got off the elevator a floor before the roof. Donovan opened the door to the stairs only to almost fall over Sherlock.

"Dammit. Stop." She hissed at him. 

"I - I can't. I have to do this."

"No. No, you don't. Haven't you learned anything? You have people, friends, family who want to help you. You aren't alone anymore. You are loved, so loved, Sherlock-"

"He has Myc, I'm the one he wants -"

"You arrogant arse! He hates Myc even more than he hates you - Moran believes the worst thing he can do to Myc is to make him watch you die, and he's right. It will absolutely kill your brother if something-"

"I have to - I'm so sorry Donovan -"

"For?"

Sherlock brought his gun down just hard enough to knock her out. "I'm so sorry -" He caught her before she fell and laid her down gently. "I hope I'll be around later to apologise abjectly for your headache." He ran up the last flight of stairs before he changed his mind. He closed his eyes and for a moment saw John smiling at him, the crown of flowers tilted over one eyebrow, a slight breeze...no...he opened his eyes, checked the safety and pushed open the door -

 

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive  
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive


	14. Good Help is Hard to Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You know what a learning experience is? A learning experience is one of those things that says, 'You know that thing you just did? Don't do that.'"_ -Douglas Adams

"Good help is just so damn hard to find, yeah?" With a predatory grin, Moran shoved his mobile in his pocket and motioned for Sherlock to step further out onto the roof. 

"Oh, I don't know. I'd say I've done rather well." Sherlock fought to maintain the guarded, indifferent facade. In truth it was all he could do to maintain his composure. If Moran called him any closer, surely he'd see the reason his hands weren't trembling was because they were clenched into tight fists. He'd know Sherlock's heart was racing, on the verge of giving out altogether.

In his peripheral vision he could see Mycroft kneeling to his right; wrists bound, he was bloodied, bruised, and barely grasping at consciousness.

"Really? Seems to me we have the same problem, you and me. Loyal, skilled, but can't seem to follow the damn orders." Moran's voice remained a low rumble, though he was growing increasingly agitated. He leveled his gun at Mycroft. "I told you what would happen if your pet tagged along."

"What? John? No. No... I left him..." Nearing frantic, Sherlock took a few steps toward Mycroft. "There's no way he followed me..."

"Sherlock, what have you done? You need to go. Go back. This is between..." Mycroft struggled to look at Sherlock.

"I did what I had to do." 

"You need to turn around and walk away. This doesn't concern you." If it were possible, bound and wounded, Mycroft managed to hold himself as stoic and as pretentious as ever. Infuriatingly, Sherlock stepped between Mycroft and Moran.

"Do you see my dilemma?" Moran took a few menacing steps forward. "Nobody follows orders anymore. Not like back in our day, hey Myc?"

"I would scarcely call what you did 'following orders,' Sebastian. Or have you forgotten about the rank and commendations that were stripped away? The command position you lost?"

"Shut up. Do you hear me, Holmes?" 

"It was you who could never follow orders. It always had to be your way, or everyone would suffer. How many men under your command died, Colonel?"

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed

"How many agents did we lose? How many assignments failed? You even failed Moriarty..."

"Dammit, Mycroft, shut up." Sherlock turned his back to Moran so he could glare at his brother.

"You better listen to baby brother, Myc."

"How many years? How much money and blood went into Moriarty's network? How much did you sacrifice, Sebastian? How much did he make you suffer for the sake of his cause? Oh, if only. If you'd only just followed orders, done your job better..."

"No." Moran growled. 

"He'd still be alive, wouldn't he? Sherlock would be dead. John Watson too."

Sherlock blanched.

"He'd rule the world, and you'd be left to watch when he found someone more obedient than you could ever be."

"Shut the fuck up." Moran leaned in and shouted in Mycroft's face.

"Men who cannot submit to authority are incapable of commanding authority." Mycroft lifted his chin and looked Moran in the eyes. Moran backhanded him, knocking him backwards.

"New plan!" Moran screamed.

 

* * *

 

"Greg..." John shifted and winced. "Damn it, Greg."

"John, we both know that if you go running out there right now, Moran will start shooting, and you'll all end up dead." Greg kept his voice low as he spoke directly into John's ear. John struggled, and almost got his arm free. "You might as well relax, I can do this all day." He twisted John's arm up a little more behind his back, trying unsuccessfully to be mindful of the burns, and pressed John's shoulder more firmly against the wall.

"Greg please... I can't..." Furious that he'd let Greg get the better of him, John continued to struggle despite the pain in his chest and arms.

"I know. Okay, I do. But it's my job to keep you arseholes from getting yourselves killed, and I'll be damned if I'm going to process yet another scene where Sherlock has bled out." He shoved John again, only intending to jostle him, but John had gone limp, making no effort to resist. It took Greg a moment to realize John wasn't breathing hard from exertion -- he was panicking. "Shit, John. I'm sorry. I didn't think..."

"Greg, I can't lose him again. I won't do it. I won't survive it."

"I know, John. I know." Greg's hold on John became less about restraint and more of a hug.

"Would you idiots shut up? They're going to hear you." Molly whispered from her spot next to the door. She propped it open just a crack so they could hear. "Oh, shit. What the hell is Mycroft doing?" Greg and John crowded in behind her and she pushed the door open a little wider.

"New plan!" Screamed Moran. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Mycroft's forehead.  "I was going to kill Sherlock and make you watch, but I really just need you to shut the hell up. So I'm gonna make little brother watch you die, and when Johnny boy shows up, because he will, I'm gonna make him choose who dies next. And we all know what brave Captain Watson will do, don't we?"

John watched in horror as Sherlock tensed and then lunged at Moran with a roar. Stunned, Moran stumbled back, and Sherlock managed to get a few solid blows in before knocking the gun away. But as fast as Sherlock was, Moran had more height and significant amount of mass on him, and he recovered himself more quickly than Sherlock expected. They traded hits until, fed up, Moran swatted Sherlock away like a rag doll.

"Enough!" Moran roared as he unsheathed a large hunting knife. "I've had enough!"  

 

* * *

 

 

_Get down to Anthea's room now. Moran's snapped. Stay with her and Mrs. H. until I give the all clear. GL_

_Shit. On our way. Sally's... incapacitated. AG_

_What the hell happened? GL_

_Sherlock. AG_

_Damn him. I hope Sally kicks his arse. GL_

_If John doesn't kill him first. GL_

_I've got Anthea now. Mrs. H is unaccounted for. AG_

_What do you mean she's unaccounted for? GL_

_She was here, but A hasn't seen her for 20 minutes. AG_

_Bloody hell. Just stay there. Don't go anywhere until I say. GL_

_Got it. AG_


	15. An Ending...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are some people you like immediately, some whom you think you might learn to like in the fullness of time, and some that you simply want to push away from you with a sharp stick.” - Douglas Adams

Moran grabbed Sherlock by the hair and put the blade under his chin, pressing until it drew blood. "Do you know how long I've waited to watch you bleed?" He hissed in his ear, and Sherlock's breath caught as he spotted the door opening a crack. John - no...

"Even before that last great run he had, for those last two years, all he ever talked about was you - Sherlock this, Sherlock that...and he spent hours laughing at the delicious irony that you, a miserable wreck with a brilliant mind, a druggie to top it off was the brother to England himself. He would stay up for days dreaming up crimes just to see what would make you bite...and he laughed, he knew you were desperately in love -"

"He had fallen in love - in love with the little brother of the man who helped to bring you down, had brought you only dishonour and shame..." Mycroft muttered.

"Shut up, Myc, please." Sherlock managed between tightly clenched teeth.

"He didn't love you anymore, you had outlived your usefulness. You were no longer necess-"

"NOOOOOO!" Moran dropped the knife and pushed Sherlock away from him, pulled out his automatic and fired into Mycroft's left hip. "I'm going to enjoy this, Myc, first the left hip, then the right - "

Sherlock froze as he watched Mycroft fall forward with barely a whimper. Then he remembered John, his John, was at the door watching and listening. It had been years since he had last used morse code, but he tried to send a message with his eyes. "I love you I Love you I love you." Then he grabbed the knife as Moran heard a noise, turned and fired.

Sherlock watched as everything seemed to slow down. He would swear later that he could see the bullet spin before it grazed his arm, then the fury that was John Watson, flying onto the roof and tackling a stunned Moran to the ground. He took a sharp breath in and time resumed its normal pace, and he remembered Mycroft. He was crumpled just a few feet away. Sherlock could hear his breathing rattle, and he slowly made his way to his brother's side.

Sherlock used the knife to cut the zipties that held Mycroft, then tossed it away and cradled him in his arms. "Myc, stay with me. Stay with me, please? MYC!"

"I am not deaf, brother mine, just a bit tired and losing a bit of blood -" Mycroft sighed at him in a fading whisper.

"Dammit, Myc, I am aware of that, I am not an -"

"You, brother dearest, are an idiot. You should never have come here. What if John..."

Sherlock leaned in to speak softly into Mycroft's ear, "if he loves me even a fraction as much as I love him, he will find a way to forgive me. You're my brother... Myc, we have only just started to understand one another... What would you have had me do?"

"I would have you use that brilliant mind of yours to listen to that great heart... the heart I know exists... the heart John Watson is allowed to see..."

"What other reason would I have for being here? Damn it... Mycroft, do you think so little of me?"

"I've given you no reason to feel obligated..."

"Obligated? You're my brother!" Sherlock whimpered against Mycroft's chest, listening for his heart beat that seemed to be too quiet, too slow to be working correctly.

"Who has given you every reason to loathe him. I let you down when you needed me most -" Mycroft closed his eyes and Sherlock felt him shiver, then go limp in his arms.

"John, please. John! I can't lose him, I can't -"

John stumbled away from Moran and knelt next to Mycroft. "We need to stop the - oh damn - " He looked up to see Moran rise to his knees, about to put a bullet into Sherlock's skull when he tumbled over, dead, before he could take the shot.

"What the hell?" Greg ran onto the roof, followed by Molly. He stopped dead in his tracks; a slightly wounded Sherlock cradling an unmoving and bleeding Mycroft in his arms, John frozen, still in mid-sentence, and last, but not least, Sebastian Moran was dead, a headshot had forever ended the last remnant of Jim Moriarty.

Across the street, slightly shaking hands broke down the weapon, and neatly replaced the components into their places; their owner swore there and then it was for the last time.

 

Excellent shot, Mrs. H - Mrs. T

Thank you, Mrs. T, care to come for a cuppa when the dust settles? - Mrs. H

How are you, dear? - Mrs. T

Glad it's finally over, Mrs. T - Mrs. H


	16. You Live...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You live and learn. At any rate, you live.” -Douglas Adams

That Sebastian Moran had been one breath from putting a bullet in Sherlock's head, only to be killed by a sniper's bullet should have been alarming. No, not alarming, it was god damn terrifying. Moran was the best at what he did, and someone had out gunned him. John Watson had two simultaneous thoughts on the matter...

One: Sherlock would likely call him a romantic, but John knew poetic justice when he saw it. In this instance, it was fucking brilliant. Never mind there was another maniac with a high-powered weapon and an exceptional eye roaming around out there.

Two: Triage under fire was still second nature, even after almost a decade out. After the initial shock, his muscles moved of their own volition, the innate healer in him overriding the protector and defender now that the most immediate threat had been neutralized.

John took a breath and shut everything off -- the hurt he refused to give credence to, the longing ache to hold onto Sherlock and never let go, and the fear that made him feel weak and incapable. They had a man down and he was top priority. "Molly! I need you!"

"I'm here, John." She knelt opposite him, and they both took a moment to look from Sherlock cradling Mycroft's now still form, to the heavily seeping wound.

"Hand me the knife." John pulled his jumper over his head and cut it to manageable strips. He gave orders as he worked. "Greg, get a team up here now. Molly, use this to get pressure on the wound. Sherlock, we need to lay him flat."

John looked up at Sherlock again, he hadn't heard John speak at all. "Sherlock?" Nothing. He was staring at Mycroft, and John could almost hear him willing his brother to wake up. "Sherlock!" Nothing. John shoved his shoulder, mindful of the wound on his arm.

Finally Sherlock blinked up at him. "John?"

"Sherlock I need you to lay Mycroft out flat." Sherlock's arms instinctively tightened around his brother. "We have to try to stop the bleeding, and we may have to..." Before he could continue, Mycroft finished the thought for him.

"Myc? Mycroft!" Sherlock looked with terror in his eyes. "He's not... John, he's not breathing. John..."

"Lay him down!" John barked. He shoved Sherlock back and laid Mycroft flat. "Molly, breaths if we need them." She nodded as John started compressions. He looked up to see Sherlock in full panic, eyes darting, hands tugging at his hair. "Pressure, Sherlock. Put pressure on Myc's wound. Do it. Now!" He was unnecessarily gruff, he knew, but Sherlock finally responded, pressing a piece of John's jumper to Mycroft's hip.

He and Molly continued CPR until the trauma team arrived. They spotted Moran first. "He's dead, leave him!" John shouted. A male nurse took over for John as he outlined the situation.

"We have a pulse," another nurse shouted. "We have to move him now."

Sherlock scrambled after them. "Mycroft! Wait, I need... No, wait, please..."

Molly was up in an instant and had her arms around him. "Sherlock, love. They have to take him to surgery. You have to let him go. Let them..." Molly dug her heels in and stood her ground.

"Get off! John, tell her. Tell her to let me go. Make her..."

John stood and waved a nurse over. "Bullet wound to the arm. It'll need cleaned and stitches. You'll want to do x-rays of the facial bones and ribs too."

"No. NO! I have to go with Myc!" Sherlock struggled and fought away from Molly and the nurse trying to inspect his arm. "No."

"You were fucking shot, Sherlock. You will go downstairs and let them take care of you." John fought to maintain a semblance of control. "Mycroft is going to surgery, you can't follow him." Despite his best efforts, John's resolve cracked then. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock only glared. "Then you. You fix it. I don't want anyone else. Just you."

"Sherlock, please. I need you to go with them. You have to- I need to make sure you're okay, but I can't... I just..."

"John?" Sherlock stopped struggling and took a shuddering breath.

"I. Can't." John released a deep, controlled breath. The adrenaline rush was ebbing away too quickly; the anxiety and exhaustion of the past days were catching up with him. "I..." He shook his head and held up trembling hands stained with Mycroft's blood. "I'm sorry."

"καρδιά μου?" Sherlock was in his space then, and John couldn't catch his breath, he couldn't... To Sherlock's dismay, he took a deliberate step back.

"Just go, love. Let them take care of you. I'm not going anywhere. By the time you're done we should have news about Myc."

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded and let the nurse lead him to the stairwell. When he cast a look back over his shoulder, John offered a tremulous smile and blinked out "I love you." Sherlock nodded and disappeared through the door. It was only with Molly's support that John made it to his knees.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sally woke up it was to a flurry of frantic activity and a pounding headache. "God damn, Holmes. I'm gonna kick his arse," she mumbled as she blinked against the terrible lights. She wasn't slumped in the most uncomfortable chair ever, but it had to have been a close second. "Al? What the hell is going on?"

"Oh god, Sally. Finally." Andy knelt in front of her. He reached up with gentle fingers and brushed the hair back from her face. "What do you remember?"

"I remember that Sherlock is a bastard." She winced as she touched the knot on her head. "And something... Oh damn, the roof. Mycroft? Is he..."

"He's going to be fine." Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly from the door. "I just spoke with a nurse. After John and Molly did CPR, they haven't had any more complications. He's still in surgery, but it's going well."

"Surgery?" Sally sat up a little too quickly and was overcome with a wave of dizziness. Andy helped ease her back into the chair.

"Moran shot him... Left hip." Something dark passed over Mrs. Hudson's face as she pulled up a chair next to Anthea's bed. She frowned and looked expectantly at Andy as she took Anthea's hand.

"Ah, she kinda flipped out when we got the news he'd been shot. They were worried she'd hurt herself, so they sedated her to be safe." Andy rolled his eyes. "There were about three minutes that I was actually afraid for that poor doctor's life."

Mrs. Hudson mumbled a string of curses reminiscent of John. Sally couldn't help but giggle, there was a time she might have thought John had corrupted the sweet lady, but she was quickly learning that Martha Hudson was plenty bad ass herself without any help.

"And Moran?"

"Dead," Mrs. Hudson supplied.

Andy spoke at the same time, "Sniper."

Sally breathed a sigh of relief. "Wait, what? No... Never mind. Good riddance." She shook her head. "And everyone else?"

"Moran managed to graze Sherlock's arm, so he's being taken care of, and I was actually on my way up to the roof to help Greg process the scene." Andy smiled and held out his hand. "Wanna come?"

"You have to ask?" Sally let Andy pull her up and into an embrace. "Go on, love, I'll be just a minute." She watched Andy step into the hall, and then she caught Mrs. Hudson's eye. "Ah, Mrs. H, uhm..." Sally held up her right arm and tapped on her sleeve with her left index finger. Mrs. Hudson checked the cuff of her blouse and pulled the sleeve of her cardigan down to cover the dark stain. Sally kept her voice low, "My trick for gun oil is peroxide. Not the cheap stuff from the chemist, but the 10% stuff from the beauty supply store. Works every time."

Mrs. Hudson smiled a conspiratorial smile. "I'll have to try that. Thank you, dear."

"Cheers." Sally patted her shoulder and grinned on her way out. She stopped at a vending machine next to the lifts for a cup of awful, overly sweetened, tea colored water. She smiled when her phone buzzed.

 

_Molly's escorting the body down to the morgue. Meet me there? AG_

_On my way. SD_

_And in case you weren't aware, Molly is a serious bad ass. AG_

_Oh god. What now? SD_

_Anderson was running his mouth, and she tore him a new one. AG_

_Damn, I missed it? SD_

_There's CCTV up here. I bet we can get a copy of it. AG_

_Al, you get me. SD_

 

When Sally turned to press the lift button she caught a glimpse a familiar form in the family waiting room. She glanced around, then realized he was the only one Andy hadn't had an account for.

 

_Go on without me. SD_

_You alright? AG_

_Yeah. Talk in a bit. SD_

 

"John?"

"Hmmm?" John was sitting in one of the godawful vinyl covered chairs, slouched forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. When she looked more closely, Sally noticed the blood still caked under his fingernails and staining the front of his t-shirt.

"Shit. John, you okay?" Stepping directly in front of him, Sally pulled one of the chairs around to face him.

"S-sally. I uhm... I don't..." He blinked up at her and shook his head. "I don't know. I just..."

"Drink this. Now," Sally commanded. John took the cup with his trembling left hand, and quickly closed his right hand around it too. He winced after the first sip, but managed to drink it down. She'd been on the job long enough, been around enough victims to recognize this. "I'm gonna go get someone..."

"No. Please," he reached out and grabbed her hand. "I'm not in shock, I just..." John shook his head. "I just need a few minutes. I just... Don't go?"

"All right, John. I... I'll be right back. I swear. No doctors, yeah?" John nodded and let go of her hand. Sally dashed from the room and returned a few minutes later with a clean t-shirt Anthea's assistant had brought for Mycroft, a spare blanket, and a packet of biscuits and a bottle of water from Mrs. Hudson's bag. She thrust the shirt into John's hands and he frowned down at it. "You, uhm..." She nodded to his shirt.

"Fuck." He pulled the filthy shirt over his head, wadded it up, and tossed it into the nearest bin. Sally realized she must have known John would have a scar from being shot, but she'd never had reason to see it. She glanced away -- this didn't seem the appropriate time either. "This t-shirt is probably more expensive than all of mine combined. Damn Holmeses."

Sally snorted, then bit her lip. John pulled the shirt on and then shrugged. "Damn Holmeses," she agreed. She handed him the water and the biscuits and draped the blanket around his shoulders.

"Ta."

"Heard you had to do CPR again. Twice in two weeks. That's..." Sally scrunched up her face. "Terrible."

"I need to keep better company." John offered her a biscuit.

"You did kinda owe me one," She nudged John's foot with her own. He glanced up, his eyes landing on her side where the bullet wound was, and then met her eyes.

"Fair enough." He managed a lopsided smile. "I never did..."

"And you won't now either. We're square, yeah?"

John nodded. "Okay, yeah. I just..."

"John?"

"Damn it, Sally. I can't do this any more."

"You're... You aren't thinking of leaving are you?" Sally leaned toward him. "John?"

"No. God, no. I... no. But this..." He shrugged, "I can't keep almost losing him. I feel like a little piece of me dies every time, and one of these times there won't be anything left."

"You need to tell him. Talk to him, John. He loves you... God. The way he looks at you, has always looked at you. I... Until Andy, I never thought anyone would ever look at me that way. Didn't seem fair, really. Damn Holmes."

John chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm so tired, Sally."

"I know, John." She reached out her hand to take his. He stared at her hand for a moment, then blinked. Whatever remained of his composure seemed to break in that moment. Sally pulled him into a tight hug, and he cried silent tears against her shoulder. "It's okay. You'll see, it's gonna be okay."

"καρδιά μου?" Sherlock whispered from the door. He was wearing a scrub top, his arm was in a sling, and he looked as emotionally wrecked as Sally was certain John felt. "John." He reached his good hand out, but dropped it to his side.

"You two need to go home."


	17. Normality...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem."  
> \- Douglas Adams

Molly sighed as she saw who had been assigned to help process Moran's body for evidence. Anderson was already making himself at home, going even so far as to take her seat in her office and to put his feet on her desk. He was actually taking a nap...

"Anderson! Get yer damn feet off my desk and make yourself useful."

"Yeah, sure... Molly."

 

Andy arrived in the morgue to find Molly taking photographs of Moran's corpse before beginning the autopsy; Anderson was taking careful notes while holding an ice pack to one eye.

This was Sally's last...oh god, no wonder she appreciated each little gesture, each small kindness.

"Er...Dr. Hooper, ma'am...I noticed when we were upstairs, some possible skin issues.."

"Yes, yes, Anderson. I'm quite aware..."

Andy made his presence known by clearing his throat and asking, "What skin issue?"

Molly looked up at Andy and sighed. "I believe we will find Mr. Moran here wasn't long for this world..I'm seeing evidence of radiation treatments, guessing he did just enough to make sure he had enough time to..."

 

Sally watched as John muttered something to Sherlock then walked over to the desk to sign the release form, taking responsibility for Sherlock once again.

"Holmes."

"Shit. Donovan. I'm sorry, I just couldn't let you - I had to -" He tried looking at the floor, but knew he needed to look her in the face.

She almost made him continue to struggle for words, but relented as she saw the pain in his eyes, most of it having very little to do with his arm.

"Sherlock, I think you have bigger problems right now than assaulting a Met officer. John needs you. He needs YOU. The you you were in Greece. I know, well not know, but I think I know when two people love each other beyond anything else. Give him some time, be there, listen to him...he is yours, heart and mind and every other part, he's just afraid one day, you won't be lucky enough..." she stopped as she saw John coming towards them. "I'll think of some nasty paperwork you can work on when you have two working hands, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and tried to summon a smirk for her, but his eyes teared up. "Thank you, Sally, I won't forget -"

"Take him home, take care of him," she commanded. "I have to go see what egregiousness Anderson is up to down in the morgue..."

 

Molly looked up from her examination, and nodded, "I'll need to run tests on the samples. but it was in an advanced state...if he hadn't essentially committed suicide by Holmes, he probably had a couple of weeks, a month at the most. We should probably get his fingerprints....Anderson!"

"Dr. Hooper, ma'am?"

"I suggest you process his fingers, just in case his prints match any unknowns on file?" Molly knew from Greg that Anderson found this particular assignment distasteful at the very least. She saw him consider his options carefully then decide it would be less painful just to comply.

"Yes, Ma'am."

 

Sherlock followed John out the double doors and tried to raise his arm to summon a cab, before he remembered.

"Sherlock, love. Let me, please?"

Sherlock nodded, afraid to speak, lest he say the one thing that would send John away, never to-

"Hey, c'mon, it's time to go home, love."

"Home?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yeah, you know, the place where we live? You, me, Bluebell and whatever critters you have frittered away in the crisper?"

"John - I - "

John shook his head as he helped Sherlock into the cab. "Not yet, καρδιά μου. Just, give me a little time, yeah? You know, you have to know, I love you more than I can possibly ever express, but I just don't want to think anymore. I can't, I can't think anymore, not today."

Sherlock took a breath and blew it out, before laying his hand gingerly on John's. He let himself relax finally, as John brought both of their hands to his lips, then bringing them to rest in his lap. They sat quietly the rest of the way to Baker Street, simply being together.

 

Holmes tried to tiptoe into their room, but sitting on the bed made him wince, and Watson startled to full awareness. He had fallen asleep waiting for Holmes to return from an 'errand' that would only serve to 'bore Watson to tears.'

Watson laid his book to the side and diagnosed one black eye, a split lip, and considering the way Holmes was breathing and protecting his left side, at least a couple of broken ribs.

"I thought we had an agreement, Holmes. You promised, you swore to me. 'Together, or not at all...' remember that, Sherlock? Or did the sea air go to your head? Did you mean just on holiday or only on the third Sunday after a full moon? I am here, here for you, for us, US, for the long haul. Do you honestly want that with me, please tell me that's what you want...because if you don't -"

"I had to help Mycroft, I was afraid that Moran would know, he would see in my face that you were there if I allowed you to come with me..."

"Allowed! Allowed....your own words...what did you think I would say? Did you think I would let something happen to Mycroft? Why don't you tell me, please tell me when you stopped trusting me? No, wait, have you ever trusted me? Ever?"

"Oh. Here. We. GO. Now we are getting to it -"

"Sherlock...." John growled at him.

"From the day you walked into my life, John Watson, the moment I saw you- You... you scrambled my wires, upset my apple cart and every apple in that cart. Ever since I met you, you have made me think of you before anything else. Yes, the Work came first, I wanted you to think that, because I couldn't bear it if you didn't feel the same way; but after that damn Study in Pink case, where you, you killed someone for me, I had some hope that you, you returned my love...after the Chinese gang, I knew, how I felt was real, and I knew that I had to protect you. No, wait, that's not what I mean...I couldn't bear it if something happened to you, when I could face it on my own...I needed to know you would be okay...I didn't realise, I didn't understand until we remembered...and then you became even more precious and I couldn't, I had to, don't you see?"

John sat up, rubbed his face and looked down at what he had typed out. "Damn..." He looked over at Sherlock, who was about to roll over onto his bad arm, fighting something in his sleep.

"Sherlock? Love? Wake up, please?"

"John? Oh, John, I'm back. Tell me I'm when I'm supposed to be? Please?"

John laughed in spite of himself. "Yeah, yeah, you're when you're supposed to be, I prom- no, scratch that. I think we need to promise not to promise anything to each other ever again."

Sherlock's eyes popped and his jaw hung open.

"Idiot. I still want to marry you, I just don't want us to make promises that we know we can't keep. I know, I'm just as guilty, we just have to try to trust one another, and love each other as honestly as we can. Can you, Sherlock, do that for me, for us?"

"Will you let me try, John? Please, let me try."

John rolled his eyes and closed his laptop, and moved to sit next to Sherlock on their bed. "Do you know what it was like watching you, watching you hold your brother, seeing your heart offered so freely to him? I - god, I love you, I love so much it hurts."

"I - I don't want it to hurt, John. I want it to feel like it did in our village, like it was something that brought you joy..."

"You have no idea how much I want that, too, καρδιά μου."

"Will you sleep next to me, please, I need to feel you next to me, please?"

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "I can do better than that, love, come here." John settled against his pillows and opened his arms to Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then laid his head against John's chest, and they both took a full, deep breath for the first time since they had been home from their holiday. They finally breathed together as one, one heart, one love. They were finally home.


	18. Obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious." -Douglas Adams

The haunting strains of the violin greeted him as he approached, and the sound warmed him to his core, despite the persistent icy mist that seemed to encase all of London. It had been grey and hateful for days, and Watson wore the strain of it in the way his typically military precise shoulders slumped, and in the necessity of leaning on the walking stick that had once been merely a fashionable accessory (and thanks to Holmes, practical because of the blade concealed within).

The door to 221 Baker Street swung open before he had opportunity to retrieve his keys. "Mrs. Hudson," he removed his hat and ducked his head.

"Oh, none of that nonsense, Doctor Watson." She smiled warmly at him and helped him off with his great coat. "He's in a mood again." She tilted her head toward the upstairs room.

Watson hummed thoughtfully. "I had hoped Lestrade, or even Gregson, would have sent for him today. The criminal ilk of London has sorely disappointed these last weeks. It's been nearly a month without a notable puzzle to occupy his mind."

"It's not the lack of a good murder, I think." She handed him the day's post and the evening edition.

"Then whatever could have him vexed so?"

"My dear boy, has it been so many years that you've shared these rooms, and none of his observational practices have influenced you?" She shook her head and her eyes glistened. "It's you. His concern after your well-being. The lads informed him of the mill accident, and that you were called upon to see to wounded. You are now nearly three hours later than normal for your return -- I have your dinner warmed and will send it up presently. And these three days you have required the stability of your stick." She smiled fondly up at him. "His days are consumed by thoughts of you."

Watson considered the dear lady's words and searched her kind, knowing face. "Mrs. Hudson..." He cursed himself internally for the uncertainty in his voice. He tucked the post and paper under his arm and glanced up the stairs. "Perhaps we should... discuss this..."

"You wound me, Doctor Watson. Do not think that because I submit to the laws of narrow-minded, repressed men that I agree with them at all. There are laws higher than any document men can draft. I have only once seen such great love that supercedes all." She tapped his chest above his heart. "I do not intend to see it tarnished, nor the hearts in which it resides come to harm."

He inclined his head to her and their eyes met. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered. She tsk'd and kissed his cheek.

"Let's not keep him in his misery any longer, shall we dear? I'll allow you some time."

Watson smiled as he let the crescendo of the melody Holmes was playing compel him up the stairs to the flat. Despite his efforts to make his entrance silent, the music eased to an end and Holmes turned from his place by the window.

"You've been composing again."

Placing the violin aside, Holmes took a few steps, glanced down the stairwell and pushed the door closed. He cupped Watson's jaw and drew him into a slow, passionate kiss.

"She knows, you know," Watson breathed and wrapped his arms around the man who was his heart.

"I suspected as much, but we must still..."

Watson stopped the words on his lips with another kiss. Holmes hummed, and rested his forehead against his Watson's. "You're exhausted, my dear." He led Watson to his chair, where he had a generous tumbler of scotch waiting on the side table and his slippers warming by the fire. "I wish you'd consider leaving the practice to another." He helped him off with his shoes.

"Just yesterday a young man, interested in establishing his own practice, made an offer..."

"Are you considering?" Holmes looked up at him from where he was knelt in front of him.

Watson chuckled. "I may not have your skill, but I can see when I'm being set up. I could see the family resemblance, Holmes. A cousin, yes? And his offer was far too generous for a man his age." He shook his head. "I'll not accept your own funds to leave my practice."

"Not mine, my clever man. My obtrusive brother."

"And why would your brother be interested in my retirement?" Watson sipped his scotch.

"He's grown rather fond of you?" Holmes smiled coyly.

"Well, perhaps he should speak to me directly of his intentions." He couldn't help but chuckle at Holmes' scowl. "My dear..."

"He offered to help me."

"Whatever with? Holmes, you know I would..."

"I've found a cottage in Sussex. There are hives, and you know my fascination with the apiary sciences. You would have your own study, where you could dedicate your hours to romanticising our adventures. All the rooms are on a single floor, which will be easier when..." He absently rubbed his hand along the old wound on Watson's thigh.

"You... you want to retire?" Holmes ducked his head. Watson ran his fingers through the carefully styled locks. "You want to retire... with me?"

"Ridiculous man, there is nothing I would not do..."

There was a soft knock on the flat door, and John placed his laptop on the coffee table. "C'mon in," he called softly.

"Hey John... Oh, god. Sorry." Greg blushed and looked away. John rolled his eyes.

"He's exhausted. Been fucking brutal since we got home from Greece." John ruffled Sherlock's sleep mussed hair, and looked fondly down at the man, his heart, his other half, napping peacefully.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Greg carded his hand through his hair and stifled a yawn.

"You been home yet, Greg?"

"Few hours last night. Molly went to her place, I went to mine. Just needed to breathe, you know?"

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Didn't sleep at all." Greg sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the couch.

"Idiot," John chuckled.

Greg ducked his head. "I... I think I'm gonna ask her to move in. Or maybe I'll move in with her. I just... It's too soon, yeah? It's stupid, I shouldn't..."

"Bloody hell, Greg. Take it from me, don't waste time." John smiled and shrugged. Greg laughed.

Sherlock stretched and groaned. "Is there a reason for this intrusion, Gavin?" John rolled his eyes and shushed him.

"Yeah, actually... Gonna need paperwork. Reports. You know the drill... Don't have to do it today, but..."

"Tomorrow. Now go away." Sherlock rolled on his side and wrapped his arms around John.

Greg chuckled. "Got it. Mrs. H. asked me to stop by for a chat anyway." He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"She's going to offer you a job," Sherlock mumbled. Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Obviously."

"Riiight," Greg exhaled.

"Uhm, congratulations?" John grinned up at Greg.

"I guess I should," he nodded toward the steps.

"Greg," Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

"Hmmm?"

"You were wrong."

Furrowing his brow, Greg pursed his lips. "I should be use to hearing that from you, but what'd I do this time?"

"You said Baskerville would be the last." Sherlock held a little more tightly to John.

"I did." Greg nodded and took in the sight of John and Sherlock at peace, and fully at rest, simply in one another's presence. "Look at it this way. I was wrong, but three very bad people are dead. Seems phase two is coming along quite nicely."

Sherlock gasped and sat straight up. "John. John we can go home. We can..."

John laughed outright. "We need to talk this through a bit, yeah?" He shook his head as he watched Sherlock's mind at work.

Pausing only long enough to grin at John and whisper, "καρδιά μου," Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in his shoulder.

"At least I was right about one thing." Greg chuckled at John's confused look. He nodded toward them. "I'm definitely still out of my element."

 

* * *

 

 

Sally yawned then stood up and stretched. Her side still ached, and itched like crazy. It had only been a couple of weeks, after all...

"Sherlock? Sher - please? Where -"

She turned toward the bed and whispered gently. "He's fine; he's home with John. You saved him."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant." Mycroft groaned as the pain reminded him of the truth of Sally's statement.

"There was a camera up there, installed after - you know."

"Quite. Sergeant, you are here, for what purpose exactly-"

"You purposely went after Moran, knowing his weakness was Moriarty, you pulled his attention from Sherlock just enough. However, in all honesty, I am here, because I didn't want you to wake up alone and confused. I knew you would be worried about Sherlock, and I'm still technically on leave while I heal, so I have nothing better to do than sit watch. I do hope that after this, you two will give me a break?"

Mycroft managed a smile and Donovan whistled. "So, the Iceman does know how, I just won the office pool."

The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes at her, but couldn't suppress the chuckle that escaped.

"You're not a bad sort, Mycroft, and uhm, I do have to thank you for Al - uhm, Andy. Without you, I -"

"Say no more -"

"No, I need to get this out. Please?"

Mycroft nodded and observed the woman who sat before him, she was as unaccustomed to kindness and sentiment as he, and he waited patiently as she struggled to compose herself. "Without you and your idiot, mmm...lovely brother, I would not know what it means to be truly loved and cared for. I will always be in your debt."

The man in the bed rolled his eyes. "My dear, any presumed debts were paid in full when you saved John Watson's life. He is as essential to my brother as oxygen or water, and probably more than food; I do believe you are more than aware of that fact."

Donovan blinked hard and whispered, "I am, yes. I only did what -"

"Sergeant. You acted out of a certain amount of sentiment and courage that I find both baffling and admirable, and if you were not needed where you are, I would be making you an offer you could not possibly refuse. As it is, you are necessary -."

Donovan finally lost the reins on her tightly wound emotions, laid her head against the rails of his bed and sobbed soundlessly.

Mycroft reached out a tentative hand and placed it on her shoulder. "Donovan, if I may, Sally, did you truly not know, how important you are?"


	19. Nobody Panic...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't panic.” - Douglas Adams

Mycroft looked up from his daily briefing, to see Mrs. Hudson eyeing him closely. He closed the document and put his laptop to the side.

"Liz -"

"No. Not even here, you know better." She snapped lightly at him.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Martha. I am sorry that you had to be the one to take -"

"I should have had the courage to do it sooner, it would have prevented so much pain and -"

"Don't. We can't live there any longer. It serves no purpose."

"Sherlock and John, they lost so much, because I -

"They would not be where they are today without those times of loss, they could not see the other for who they were without the pain of separation. I would not wish that kind of psychic wound on anyone, but it serves as a reminder, I believe, when they lose their way on occasion, as they did in the last few weeks since their return. You have to let it go, Mrs. H. You saved us all when you -"

"There was no one else. I knew he was suffering, in a moment of sanity, he sent me a note, years ago, that he was dying, and that he was sorry for the dishonour he had brought upon himself and on me. He wasn't always so broken, there was a time when he could have been you. And I think that is part of what he resented so much, he had it in him to be something remarkable."

Mycroft turned his head sharply to glare at her. "No, Hudders. I am a simple bureaucrat...nothing more."

"Ah, now who needs to get over themselves. Mycroft Holmes. You are so much more than your ridiculous bespokeness and brollys...you have an amazing, beautiful and perhaps even more brilliant person next door who is having to be kept under observation, because she keeps trying to get out of her bed just to get a glimpse of you, just to be by your side. Vi - Anthea had to be sedated when she knew you had been shot. She would have found a way to get to the roof if she had known how close it was."

Mycroft looked down at his hands and mumbled. "Can you get me a wheelchair?"

"Myc."

"No, I need to see her, as much as she - all I could think of up on the roof was how much time I - we had wasted...."

"All right. Give me a moment."

 

Sally had finally managed to escape the endless hallways of Bart's, it felt like the first time in weeks, though it had only been what? A couple of days, she thought, though really she had lost track. She sat down wearily on a bench that was somehow dry, and thankful that Sherlock hadn't hit her as hard as he could have. She closed her eyes for what she swore was only a minute, but when she opened them again, Andy was kneeling in front of her, with a black velvet box. The snow had started up again, he was smiling his beautiful, breathtaking smile and it was all too perfect. It finally broke her.

"I can't. I'm sorry, you are lovely and amazing and absolutely brilliant and I'm not any of those things, and - I have to go." She jumped from the bench and ran. She didn't even know where she was running to, or even what time of day it was, but she soon found herself flying up the seventeen familiar steps, not even caring if she hit the creaky one.

Sherlock muttered without turning from the window where he was working on a new piece. "John is out walking Bluebell, should be back shortly, especially considering the new snow-"

"No. I think, I think I need to talk to you. You won't try to, that is -"

"I will tell you straight up what a fool you are being?"

 

Mycroft winced as he tried to get comfortable in the chair. It was far too soon, but he needed to touch her, needed to be near her.

"Myc? Oh - love, you should be in bed, you're in pain. You idiot. If I weren't so relieved to see you -"

He bent his head and captured her lips, for the first time, effectively deleting whatever it was she had in mind. 

"You, you, Myc, you don't know...no, you do know. Look at the pair of us. How on earth will we make this work. We don't do this."

"This? You mean this?" He kissed her soundly, finding he forgot about the pain he was in when he was lost in her sighs. "And...this?" He nuzzled her neck gently and felt his body react in ways that shook his very foundations.

"God, Vi - I - we will find a way to, we are two relatively brilliant people, we should be able to deal with..."

"All these feelings, Myc, I haven't, I don't, I am completely at sea, and yet....yet, if you don't kiss me again now, I will lose what is left of my mind."

"Yes, love."

 

"Holmes?" Donovan began dangerously.

"You are out of breath, and you generally are in decent shape, so you were running faster than usual, you also left your jacket and gloves, so you left before you were ready...and Andy just texted me, in a panic looking for you."

"You arse."

"Guilty as charged." He pointed his bow in the direction of John's chair. "Please, have a seat, I'll see to tea."

"No thanks, I'll skip it, if you don't mind." She snorted as she curled up in the comfortably faded chair. Somewhat reminiscent of its owner, she thought briefly.

"Suit yourself." Sherlock sat across from her and sighed. "So, tell me. I'm slowly learning that I should let others tell me things, deducing them tends to put them off."

Donovan blinked at him, then nodded. "You may know, uhm, Al, that is, Andy and I have come to some kind of understanding, much to my surprise."

"Why are you surprised, Donovan? You both are reasonably attractive, intelligent, and you met under, well, unusual circumstances. Besides the age difference, the work issues and your reluctance to believe that someone so well matched to your own abilities, needs and wants could possibly find you appealing- and your past track record...Yes, I see your problem..."

Sally sighed and rolled her eyes, but laughed in spite of herself. Sherlock grinned. "I suppose that last bit was..."

"True, but a bit..."

"Not good?"

"Got it in one." She paused and ruffled her hair. "You don't happen to have something stronger than tea around here do you?"

"For medicinal purposes, or so John claims, usually for when I piss him off more than usual, or he has to stitch me up, or I have to attempt to...short answer, yes."

Sherlock stood slowly, then retrieved a decently cleanish glass, and pulled out a large book with a secret panel.

"Seriously? I thought those only existed in spy novels..." Donovan smirked.

"Grateful client. Takes all kinds, I suppose." He poured out a double for her and replaced the bottle, then reshelved the book.

"Listen to me, Donovan, listen to me good. Right now, you are in fight, or flight mode. You have done the flight, and now you know, deep down that you think you will need to fight for him." Sherlock glanced up to see Andy at the door. "You, Sally Donovan, deserve to be happy, and from what I have observed lately, your Andy, or 'Al,' or whatever name he chooses to go by, makes you happy. Deliriously so, I believe. He respects you, delights in making you laugh, and can't wait to take you home. He was simply trying to determine which home that would be, his or yours. He wasn't trying to propose, he was asking you to move in with him, or was going to move in with you, being the feminist he is...isn't that correct, uhm...hell...Al?"

Donovan spun around and saw Andy holding a keychain, in the shape of the Hound. "I want to spend as much time with you as soon as possible, and I thought a keychain without a key might uhm."

"Yes. Yes, Al, please? I'm sorry - I just -"

"Panicked. Understandable. I didn't think, I'm sorry Donovan. Uhm, thanks -"

"Sherlock is fine, Donovan has a list of other known descriptives, but you can call me Sherlock." He offered his hand, which Andy took carefully.

"Thank you, I, truly appreciate your help, she is all you described and more to me. I want her to know -"

"She does, I believe, Andy, please treat her well, as she is responsible for keeping my world together in one piece, such as it is..."

"Guys, I am standing right here." Donovan growled, but understood how well-intended Sherlock's words were, and it surprised her to note how important they were to her.

"Yeah, but they hadn't truly had the chance to make you blush fourteen different shades of pink, right, love?" John had entered the flat with a damp bag of take-away and a slightly damper Bluebell, who made her way to the fireplace. "You two are staying, I got enough for a decent sized army."

 

Mycroft felt his presence before he opened his eyes; there was movement in the room that could only mean his brother was thinking far too loudly, but he was trying to keep it down to a dull roar.

"Do you think you could sit? You are making me dizzy."

"Sorr-" Sherlock fell into the chair next to his bed.

"No. I'm sorry, brother mine." Mycroft blinked awake, and took in his brother's appearance. He still appeared somewhat on the raw side, bruised and a bit scraped, and the sling though now tossed next to his coat, was probably a necessity still, if only to remind Sherlock to use the arm gingerly, if at all. He had slept, and the broken expression that Mycroft remembered seemed to be replaced with a fragile, well-earned contentment.

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"If you want to know, just ask, and I'll tell you."

"Ah, is that how it works?"

"Hmmm, sometimes."

"You and John?"

"Stable and holding at this point. Growing pains, we're just trying to be careful." Sherlock looked at him to see if he understood. 

"Thank you." Mycroft mumbled, playing with an invisible loose string that needed his attention.

"What for?" Sherlock sat back in surprise, and tried not to show any excess emotion that would only serve to embarrass them both.

"Sherlock. I find myself in a position, that I am, hmmm...at the very least, unaccustomed. Please, will you take my hand?"

Sherlock reached for Mycroft's hand and felt his brother's strong fingers wrap around his wrist, pausing for a moment, then holding tightly to his fingers. He couldn't remember the last time before a couple of days previous when they had touched so...well, lovingly. 

"I had no right to expect that you would be willing to sacrifice everything to be at my side in the way you did, I have not earned such fealty...."

"Mycroft." Sherlock sighed. "Now, who is being the idiot? Hmmm? You have saved me countless times, from myself most of all. In Serbia....NO. Please? You risked exposure and death to rescue me and take me home. You are the reason John and I finally realised what we are, you have given me the first truly happy days of my life."

"You are happy, then?"

"Look at me, Myc, look in my eyes, and tell me what you see."

Mycroft finally raised his eyes to take in his brother. His eyes were clear and sparkling, and above all they smiled at him, in peace. He finally knew he was loved, truly loved for himself.

"Brother mine. Will you sit a bit with me while I rest?"

"Of course."

Sherlock held his brother's hand as the late morning's winter sun finally broke through, no words were needed, as they finally recognised what was good and true in the other, and it was enough.


	20. Filling in the Blanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."_ -Douglas Adams

"Now that I know who I'm looking for, you're going to have to work a little harder." John sat a coffee on the little outdoor table with a chuckle.

"If you see me it's because I want you to see me." Nate eyed the coffee. "Really?"

"It's not their fault Mary Morstan was a psycho bitch. This is my favorite coffee place..." John shook his head. "Why am I telling you that? You've been around from the beginning." He sat down hard. Bluebell curled around his feet.

"Before, actually." Nate sniffed the coffee and took a sip. "A long term operation like this? Took some coordination. 221 had to be refurbished, security measures had to be taken, we had to..."

"Oh god." John held up his hand and shook his head. "I don't want to... Wait. Sherlock and I hadn't even met, again, uhm... yet, for a second time? Damn."

Nate laughed. "We were prepped for Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. You were a late addition. Wasn't too hard to adapt. The job has been significantly easier than we expected with you around."

"Uhm, thanks? I don't know how to..." John sighed and took a drink of coffee. "This has all been a lot to take in. I admit to not trusting people easily. So to find out that the past decade, half the people I interact with..."

"Probably only a third," Nate winked.

"He's got jokes." John rolled his eyes and Bluebell huffed. "So a third of the people I interact with on a regular basis know everything there is to know about me. It's a bit unsettling that my life has basically just been one big covert operation. Next you're going to tell me Mycroft somehow hand picked me?"

"Weeell...

"No."

"Of course we've got your military record. We always keep track of those with potential." Nate cleared his throat.

John gaped. "Potential."

"Even after your injury, your name was on a short list."

"You're taking the piss."

Nate shook his head. "Home Office was impressed. But..." John stared, expectantly. "Mycroft already had a file on you. Something about a childhood encounter with his brother."

John stood up, and nearly upset the table. "God damn it. Son of a bitch remembered me?" Nate winced and nodded. "Shit. If he weren't already in hospital, he'd be there soon enough."

"For what it's worth, he didn't actually find you until you were already at Sandhurst. And he never interfered. So your rank, your commendations, you earned those things."

"Too right I fucking earned them." John took a deep breath. And then two more. He then motioned to his shoulder.

"When the report of your injury came in, he... may have ensured you had above standard care."

"He 'may have,' huh? Well that's just bloody fantastic isn't it? For all the good it did. Couldn't have done something about the pension, then?" John tossed his coffee cup into a bin and checked the time.

"It has been a good while since you've needed to rely on your pension, you know."

John opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. He and Nate stared at one another for a long moment.

"You're going to be late for work, Doctor." Nate smiled innocently up at him. "Only a few days until you retire, and live comfortably off your savings... And then it's what, a Grecian cottage?"

John smirked, but pretended to ignore him. "And everyone with access to my file knows... everything?" Nate nodded. "So I probably shouldn't kill you right here?"

"Hmm. Inadvisable."

"Right. C'mon girl." He picked up Bluebell's lead and rolled his eyes. "See you later, neighbor."

"No. You won't."

When John looked back over his shoulder, the table was empty. "Damn married ones."

 

* * *

 

For most of his life, waking before daylight had been routine. He savored the fact that he was still in bed as the earliest hints of daylight shone through the curtains. All the better to bask in the warmth of the beautiful woman asleep with her head on his chest.

Greg ran his fingers through her soft hair and she sighed contentedly. He gingerly picked up her hand and kissed each bruised knuckle. How many times had he wanted to punch Anderson? How many times had he almost turned away and let John do it for him? Why was he thinking of Anderson and John even as he was the luckiest bastard on earth at the moment? He chuckled and started over with the light kisses brushed over each contusion. Between each kiss he whispered "I love you." He kissed her palm. Again and again. Then her wrist.

When Molly finally stirred awake with another soft sigh, she blinked up at him in wonder, and flashed a cheeky grin. "You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I loved you."*

Greg laughed and pulled her more closely against him. "And do it with all thy heart."

She sighed and pretended to pout. "I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."

"Come, bid me do anything for thee." Greg gave her his most rakish smile.

Molly seemed to consider her options, then rolled up so she could lean in close. With her lips hovering over his, she whispered, "Kill Anderson."

Greg snorted. "Ha! Not for the wide world." He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face, and pushed herself away from him.

"You kill me to deny it. Farewell." With a look more sultry, more alluring than Greg thought it possible for any woman to be capable of -- his ex had certainly never looked at him like that, and god this was not the time to be thinking about her -- Molly scrambled from the bed and swung her robe on with a flourish to rival Sherlock (also not an appropriate subject for bed).

"Wait... wait come back. Please? Let me just get my gun and I'll go right now!" He jumped from the bed and nearly broke his neck trying to get a pair of pyjama bottoms on.

Molly pouted again. "You broke character."

"It's early yet, give me chance." He dove after her.

"Farewell!" She squeaked as she ducked into the hallway. He caught her in the kitchen. She playfully fought him off, so he kissed her until she stopped. "Mmm. Do that again."

"As you wish."

"Not Shakespeare, but I'll allow it," she mumbled against Greg's lips. This time she pressed up to kiss him, and it lasted until Toby yowled at them.

"Are you sure he likes me?" Greg glared at the cat nestled on top of... "Oh god. Is that John’s coat?"

Molly gigglesnorted and rested her forehead on Greg's shoulder. "Damn. He left it here the other day, and I haven't seen him. I'll need to get that cleaned."

"You think Toby will actually give it up?"

"I... have no idea." They both giggled. "God, those two." Molly pulled away and filled the kettle.

"They'll be okay. I think Sherlock may be seriously considering retiring. And John’s in his last few days at the surgery, not that he's actually gone in since he's been home." Greg leaned back against the workspace and considered his words carefully.

"John gave me some pretty solid advice the other day." It was a fight to keep his voice even.

"Did he?" Molly dropped some bread in the toaster.

"He told me not to waste any more time."

"Wise man, John Watson." Toby mewed softly in response. Greg huffed a laugh.

"So, I was thinking... we could maybe..."

"Your place is more centrally located to both our jobs." Molly smiled sweetly before digging in the fridge for some jam.

Greg shook his head and laughed. "But no pets allowed. And besides, you have more space. A spare room."

"We could always start new?" She poured water into two mugs.

"I'm glad you mentioned that..." Greg stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest. "I've been offered a job. Working for Mycroft."

Molly nearly dropped the milk. "Are you... did you... Seriously? What did you..."

"I told Mrs. Hudson I'd have to discuss it with you."

"Me? Why me?" Molly ducked her head.

Greg pulled her into an embrace. "Molly Hooper, I have loved you for so long, and was too afraid to do anything about it. Now I have you, and I'm not going to do anything, move across town, take a new job, change my laundry detergent, without discussing it with you first." He tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. "I love you, and intend to spend the rest of my life showing you."

Molly buried her face in his chest. "Aren't you up for promotion?" She murmured.

"I am. It's an incredible honor... and also mostly administrative. Working for Myc, I'd get to keep doing case work."

"It's more dangerous." Molly chewed her lower lip.

"There's the potential for it, yes."

"And the benefits?"

"Crazy. Definitely an increase, and a housing allowance." Greg grinned.

"So we could afford a new place. Anywhere we wanted?"

He hummed in confirmation.

"You want to do it." Molly smiled up at him.

"I have to admit, it is very tempting." Greg kissed the tip of her nose.

"Would you recommend Sally for your current position?"

"When I heard about the promotion, I started the process then. She deserves it." Greg shrugged, but Molly nodded.

"Do it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah- Yes. I wish you could see the excitement in your eyes just talking about it. You have to do this!"

"O-okay." Greg released a deep breath. "Okay. Right. I'll make the call." He started to pull away.

"Right now? I thought maybe we could..." Molly blushed. "Maybe you'd want to celebrate first?" She started pulling him toward the hall. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"As you wish."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock paced the room. Waiting. He hated waiting. Insufferable.

"Love, please sit down. You're grating on my last nerve, and you've terrified the nurses." Mrs. Hudson patted the seat next to her.

"If the surgery went fine, and he's to make a complete recovery, why do they need to run tests?" Sherlock raised his voice. "Are the doctors here so incompetent that they have to double check their work? Should I be concerned for my brother's safety?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you sit down this instant." Mrs. Hudson demanded. Sherlock froze at the use of his full given name and slumped into the chair like a petulant child. "Now we've got some time, so, I feel I owe you a confession."

"Confession?" He sat up, suddenly very interested and turned his chair toward hers. "Oh, wait. Is it about Moran? I already figured that out."

"No, dear." She patted his knee. "Now don't interrupt." Sherlock wore his most put upon face, but nodded for her to continue. "It's about Florida."

"Florida? What? No..."

"I started tailing Frank when we were both very young. He wasn't a major player in the cartel yet, but it was a place to start. He spotted me in a club one night, and asked me to dance."

"Oh god. Hudders, I don't think..." Sherlock paled, and tried to escape. She pulled him back to his seat by the back of his jacket.

"You'll sit, and you'll listen. Or I'll have someone drag you down to Scotland Yard so you can do the paperwork you promised Greg."

Sherlock grudgingly sat.

"Very well." Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly. "So, we danced. Despite the fact that he rose quickly in the ranks of a cartel that did very bad things, I fell hard for him. It was the element of danger, I think. We were fighting for different sides, though he had no clue. He thought I was a secretary." Sherlock snorted at that.

"When he was offered a leadership role in Florida many years later, it made sense for me to go along. I could collect intelligence, and we could take them down internationally. I didn't realize one of his lieutenants had grown suspicious of me, had me followed, and then spotted me with another agent at lunch one day. That's when things started to fall apart." Mrs. Hudson worried the cuff of her cardigan with her fingers.

Sherlock leaned back and considered her words. He frowned. "Why me? I was an unpredictable addict back then, I could have so easily gotten myself, or you, killed. Why didn't Myc go?"

"There was fear that once I was discovered, they'd recognize other agents as well. You were connected, yes, but no one could accuse you of being a spy. You were legitimately enrolled in that rehab program." She offered him a sad smile. "And, because you're the best at what you do."

"Not if you ask Myc."

"He does like to wind you up."

Sherlock sighed. "Why not just kill Frank and end it? Or take down the cartel?"

"When I was found out, the Americans backed out on their promise of tactical support. The only help I could rely on was local law enforcement. You were there, you saw them. Despite being competent and eager, they were ill-equipped for a takedown of that scale."

"So, despite being on a perpetual high, and despite my insistence that I had no desire to play spy games, you and Myc still..." Sherlock did stand then. He stood by the window and stared out. "Why tell me now?"

"Because I am tired of the secrets."

Sherlock scoffed derisively.

"And because you are ready to hear this now." She stood next to him. "I'd rather you hear it from me than figure it out on your own."

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded absently. "I got clean after that." He let Mrs. Hudson take his hand. "And started working with Greg."

"And it wasn't so long after that you met John, or were reunited with him."

They stared out the heavy clouds building over London. "Anything else I should know?"

"Ah... Well." Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "Angelo..." Sherlock groaned. "You really did clear up that murder charge for him."

"But?"

"He wasn't actually house breaking that night. He was setting up surveillance. All the evidence you found? We had to plant that after he was accused of that murder. As an alibi, it was easier to explain than his actual reason for being there."

"He went to prison!" Sherlock released Mrs. Hudson's hand and turned to face her.

"That is the official report, yes." She looked up at him and smiled. "You didn't actually visit him, or even try contacting him there though did you, dear? How would you know if he was in jail or not?"

Sherlock growled in frustration. "Where..."

"We planted him back in that same house he supposedly robbed for the duration of his sentence."

"There is always something. Damn it. Always."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, brother mine. Mrs. Turner is quite skilled." Mycroft looked smug as they wheeled him into the room.

Sherlock glared at his brother until sudden realization struck. "Not John? John isn't one of you minions too is he?"

"Myc put up quite the case for acquiring him at first." Mrs. Hudson nodded and Sherlock scowled.

Mycroft yawned, and settled back into the bed. "No need to worry, Sherlock. Your John is just that. Yours. His allegiance is to you alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Greg and Molly do a bit of Benedick and Beatrice. "Much Ado About Nothing," Act IV, Scene i; William Shakespeare.


	21. A Pause or Two...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“For as long as he could remember, he’d suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there.”  
> -Douglas Adams

Holmes snorted in his sleep. His usually slicked back curls fell over one eye and Watson pushed them back gently. He wasn't sure why he felt it necessary, but he needed to see his friend's eyes. He needed some reassurance that they were real people, not some figment of someone's imagination gone round the bend.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled.

"How is Mycroft?" It was as good a question as anything else he could come up with at the moment.

"As well as can be expected, he will have a permanent limp, but at least he will have an actual reason to carry those ridiculous brollys. That's not what you needed to know though, is it?"

John bit his lip then sat down on the floor and watched the last bits of fire crackle away for a moment or two...the snow was never going to end. He muttered in a voice that seemed entirely too loud to his own ears, "budge up." Sherlock sat up to give John room on the couch, then laid his head in John's lap.

"I'm beginning to wonder, everything about my life seems..."

The Sherlock from just a month ago would have tried to complete John's sentence, but he was quickly learning that he didn't always know what John wanted or needed, and he wanted to know, so he waited.

"...a bit surreal, slightly overproduced. I just needed to be sure of you."

Sherlock nodded, as he had been feeling the same all afternoon. The only thing he could think to do was to give John solid proof of his thereness. He reached for John's small, strong and battle worn hand and placed it over his chest. John started, then his hand relaxed. Words seemed to be not worth the trouble at that moment, so, they both sighed, then began breathing together until the moment of uncertainty passed.

"Thank you," John muttered against Sherlock's mop of hair.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock was almost back to sleep.

"Thank you for, just, I don't even know, really."

"Yeah. Me too."

 

John blinked awake to late morning light and stillness. He was in their bedroom, not on the couch where they had fallen asleep last night. Sherlock must have managed to get them to bed, even with his bad arm. He had known John would be miserable the next day if he slept on the couch. He looked around for any sign of Sherlock, but saw nothing, heard nothing. Bluebell was missing from her spot at the end of the bed, and Sherlock's robe hung on the back of the door.

John rubbed his eyes and regretfully threw the covers off. He put his feet into his ratty slippers that he couldn't bear to part with, though Sherlock rolled his eyes at them on a daily basis. "Tea. I need tea." He made his way to the kitchen and stopped as he found a small brown package, simply adorned with a purple... hmmm... plum, not quite aubergine, ribbon, and what appeared to be an old fashioned fountain pen.

He blinked and considered. "It's not my - oh wait, yeah, it is my birthday, damn. With everything that has happened, you remembered."

"Of course I did, καρδιά μου." Sherlock was standing in the doorway, Bluebell at his side. She looked up expectantly, and Sherlock unhooked her leash and gave her a treat from his pocket, then bent over her and rubbed her head. "I couldn't forget something that important. Please, open it?"

John nodded, then carefully undid the ribbon, and held the pen in his hand. It fit him perfectly; solid, with a bit of weight, silver and ebony.

"I got it rebuilt a bit so you can use those cartridges or a bottle of ink, thought it might come in handy. It's Victorian...I, uhm, found it a while back, even before Greece, I wasn't sure how you would take the gesture, but I wanted to give you something, mmm...special. Go on, open it, please?"

John looked over at Sherlock who was actually a bit, what, nervous? Like when he was a child, and wanted to show John something, he twitched a bit and bounced on his toes. God, the man would be the end of him.

"All right, all right..." John opened the plain brown paper and found three leather bound journals, his initials had been stamped in the corner, and the paper, the paper was..." made in the Czech Republic, if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock beamed. "I've noticed you've been writing something, not the blog, but something else? Whenever you've had a bit of extra time, you've been typing away, thought the pen and paper might be more appropriate?"

"You haven't, uhm...peeked?" John narrowed his eyes, then blushed a bit.

"No. I haven't, I swear, but I have an idea that you are writing about the other us...the ones we kind of bump into from time to time?"

John nodded, and was blindsided by some raw emotion that he couldn't push away. "Hmmm...I know we haven't really talked about it much, but I'd really like to kiss you right now, may I?"

Sherlock froze a bit, then relaxed and nodded. "Please?"

John laid his gifts on the counter and took the couple of steps that bought him to stand in front of Sherlock. "καρδιά μου, I, am so full right now, my heart almost can't bear it." He took Sherlock's hand and placed it against where his heart was thudding almost out of control.

"Shhh. I'm here." Sherlock used his other hand to pull John closer to him and he gently kissed him. "Happy Birthday, καρδιά μου." Their foreheads met and John was able to find his breath again, he settled against Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes, and finally knew with a certainty that was slightly embarrassing, that they were going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, John gets two birthdays; the A Lovely Birthday bit seems to exist in its own parallel universe, and if you choose to view it in that manner, it does.


	22. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes."_ -Douglas Adams
> 
> (because it's the last chapter, and we couldn't not use it!)

The sound was familiar, comforting in its repetition. Slower now than it had once been, more deliberate, heavy with necessity rather than an outward show. She tracked the progress of the now precious, always precise, tap of metal against linoleum in the hall.

A gasp and the cessation of forward motion drew her eyes up to the mirror so she could see the still form behind her. Anthea blushed, she couldn't stop herself, as she realized the crystalline eyes were trained on her. Watching. Assessing. She bit her lip, decided better of it, and let herself smile a genuine smile. Caught in the act of pulling her hair back in a familiar, practical, twist, she let it fall loose down her back.

"Myc. Stop staring and come in," she laughed.

"Why are you up? You're not supposed to be up." Mycroft did his best to hurry into the hospital room, though he was still adjusting to the constant twinge in his hip, the way his leg didn't exactly respond the way he remembered it ought, and the the mechanics of relying on a the new brolly for support.

"One could say the same to you," Anthea turned very slowly, bracing herself on the sink. She looked him up and down and met his gaze with a challenging glare of her own.

"I have been cleared to walk short distances. You have not."

"But the doctor encouraged me to build strength, and standing is the best way to do that at the time being."

"Violet," Mycroft growled.

"Mycroft," she mimicked, then covered her mouth and giggled when he frowned. "I'm sorry, love. I just... I'm so tired of that chair, and that damn bed..."

"I do understand." Mycroft stepped right up to her. "But you shouldn't, not alone any way. You still need to be so careful."

"I know." She ducked her head and he brushed her hair back behind her ear. "I just..." She sighed.

"What were you doing in here, Vi?"

"It's going home day. I wanted it to be..." She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes.

"You wanted it to be special?" Mycroft whispered next to her ear. She nodded her head against his shoulder and rested her forehead there. "You look stunning, Vi."

Huffing a disbelieving laugh, she took a small step back and studied his appearance. The wound and necessary bandages on his hip did not lend themselves to his standard bespoke brilliance, but he still cut a rather fetching figure, if a bit casual (per his own standards). His shoes were not the exceptional Italian leather he normally wore, but sturdier brogues. She knew the charcoal trousers were off the rack, but the fit could have passed as tailored. He wore a white button up and a red tie under a fine soft grey jumper. He leaned on what appeared to be his standard brolly, though few knew the truth. John had found it; it was classic black, the shaft was sturdy reinforced titanium, and in the handle there were two release buttons. One opened the umbrella, the other released the undetectable blade. Practical for support and security, and it added a touch of mystery and intrigue.

"No. This," she motioned to his clothing, "is stunning. Very public school posh." She did look up then, in time to see him roll his eyes and smirk. She looked down at her own black tracksuit, the jacket zipped over a soft red t-shirt, with her most comfortable trainers. When Martha had asked, she'd opted for easy, not taking into consideration who her escort might be. "While I..."

"Look ravishing in red." Mycroft gently lifted her chin so he could finally see her eyes. "You never wear your hair down anymore..."

"The job," she shrugged.

"I miss it." His gaze never wavered. "You've done up your eyes, though you didn't need to."

"It's been weeks since I saw to my eyebrows. God. Don't look too closely." She tried to turn away with a laugh, but he gingerly caressed her jaw.

"You're beautiful." His voice was low and she shook her head. "Beautiful," he repeated with a bit more conviction.

She blinked up at him. "I don't... How can you..."

"You're alive. We're both here, alive. And you're standing..." Mycroft seemed to come undone, and he gently pulled her to his chest. "You're standing. I thought you'd been killed that day. Thought I lost you forever. And then they weren't sure if you'd ever... but you are. You will."

"We're both a bit battered and broken." She whispered against his neck. "And the thought of going back to work... It terrifies me. What if..."

"I'm afraid too, Vi. I heard a loud noise on the street earlier and caught myself ducking." He held her closer, and neither was sure who was supporting who. "Though now my concern is not so self serving. I find I need to protect this, us. But the job is too grand in scale for either of us to do alone. We'll do it together. Just as we always have done."

Fingers ran tenderly through her hair and she pressed a soft kiss on his neck. Then another on his jaw. Mycroft turned his face and met her lips with his own.

"Shall we go home?" He murmured against her lips.

"Is this a good idea?"

"A loaded question my dear, one with any number of logical answers." He helped her ease into the hateful wheelchair. "The most obvious, I believe, is..." Wincing in pain he leaned down and kissed her once more.

"God, yes," she breathed.

 

* * *

 

"Mycroft Holmes, why are you not at home taking care of Violet? And for godsake, why are you attempting to climb those stairs?"

"Martha," he inclined his head to her in greeting. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot impatiently. "I just dropped her off for physio... And since my doctor cleared me to do so, I am taking every opportunity I can get."

Mrs. Hudson very nearly melted. "Oh Myc, my dear boy. I am so relieved to see you. Is Vi doing well?"

"She is," he nodded. "Still a long road, but she managed a short distance on her own this morning. She's been working relentlessly between physio sessions." His look conveyed both adoration and pride.

"Wonderful, love." She smiled and then waved him on. "I won't keep you. Those two are in need of a referee anyway."

Mycroft huffed a laugh. "Fantastic." As he made his way up, ever so slowly, he strained to hear the conversation.

"Aubergine?"

"For you, yes. For me, no."

An exasperated sigh. "No, for the serviettes, John."

"We're doing dinner at Angelo's. He's got those red checkered table clothes, and the fancy whites for special occasions. Can't we just..."

"You don't understand."

"Clearly." It was John’s turn to sigh. Mycroft chuckled softly.

"Sunshine?"

"Yes dear?"

"John. Be serious. Sunshine?"

"Ew, not yellow."

"It's not..."

"It is. And no."

"Chartr..."

"Do not finish that word. God no. Look... that one's called bluebell. It's nice."

Mycroft heard Sherlock hum and there was a scuffle.

"Sherlock... the hell... get off! You're gonna smudge... Sherlock!"

"Shhh. John. It's perfect. It matches some of the lighter flecks in your eyes. Excellent choice."

"Glad to be a help. Damn it, this envelope is ruined." There was a pause when Mycroft considered tapping on the door, but it was short lived. He stepped silently in through the kitchen in order to observe the scene.

"Don't forget Henry and Louise."

"That's who you just smudged, git." John rolled his eyes. "So you're settled on serviettes?"

"What? No."

"Well what the hell was that?" John was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, using the coffee table to address envelopes, Bluebell curled beside him. Sherlock had flopped onto the couch and was playing with the hairs at the back of John's neck with one hand, and flipping through a bridal magazine with the other.

"Ribbon color for the flowers."

"Sherlock, we're doing civil ceremony down in the conference room at the registry office. We don't even have to wear suits..."

"Yes. Don't worry about the suits. They're being seen to. I have this one opportunity to dress you properly, and I'm taking it."

"Well, I'm not carrying a bouquet if that's what you're thinking." John grumbled. "But feel free if you're so inclined."

"Don't be ridiculous. Corsages for Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Sally, Harry if you think she'll come..."

John grunted. "We'll see." Sherlock moved his hand soothingly over John's shoulders, and John relaxed into the touch.

"Also for Anth- ah, Violet."

"I can't get use to it either, love." A small smile played at Sherlock’s lips when John used the endearment. He mouthed the word love and ran his fingers through John's hair.

"Sunshine," Sherlock mumbled.

"What? No. No yellow."

"Your hair. It reminds me of sunshine."

John scrunched up his face. "Too much grey."

"Perfect. My sunshine."

"καρδιά μου," John chuckled and reached behind him to squeeze Sherlock's hand. And with that, Sherlock was back on task.

"We'll need boutonnieres for us. Greg is standing up for you. Mycroft for me." Mycroft bit back a surprised gasp at Sherlock's words. His brother wanted him to stand with him? At his wedding? He blinked rapidly a few times and tried to regain his composure.

"What about Andy?"

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Sally is fond of him. And he did shoot Lyons."

"Excellent qualifiers. He's young enough, we should make him ring bearer." Sherlock snorted, and then they were both laughing. Mycroft chuckled.

"Are you just going to lurk, Myc, or are you actually going to come in?" Sherlock called.

"I didn't want to interrupt. You two are... sweet."

John laughed outright at that. "Lies."

Mycroft shook his head as he sat gingerly in John's chair. "I came to offer my assistance, but it appears..."

"We filed notice weeks ago, a few days after Moran..." John explained without looking up from his task.

"Ah, and you've chosen a date? Rather soon, I'd assume."

"We did... but we- I wanted to make sure..." Sherlock swung his legs around and sat up. "I wanted to make sure you'd be strong enough."

"Sherlock?"

"Myc, will you... if you..."

"Of course I will stand up for you, brother mine. I can think of no greater honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, of course we're going to continue. We only pretend to be Mofftissh. ♡♡♡


End file.
